Classroom 221b
by RissaCay
Summary: AU John meets Sherlock as he struggles with the most pressing mystery of mankind: high school. Sherlock is the cohesively intriguing and insufferable misfit who, despite John's good judgement, becomes his one and only friend. Putting aside the school's speculations about them, the duo elect instead to inspect the mysterious murder of local rivaling schools. Fun, fluff, and romance.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: I really couldn't help but write some of this out. Hope you enjoy. By the way, this is set in 2012 so please don't tell me that Sherlokc wouldn't have a smartphone. I just couldn't write his character without one!**

John was fairly positive that Classroom 221b was similar to Waldo or the lost City of Atlantis: hidden to the point of nonexistence.

At least, that was the impression he was starting to get as he wandered aimlessly down the halls of his massive new high school. Twenty minutes had passed since his mom had dropped him off, and still, the numbering of classrooms made absolutely no sense to him. He exhaled loudly.

After passing the same statue of a stallion—the school's mascot—at least thirty times, John turned down an unfamiliar hall and found it.

He pushed open the door. A class of thirty students peered over at him. The teacher, a middle aged thing in an olive colored sweater, fell silent upon his arrival.

"Sorry I'm late, ma'am," John said. "It's my first day and, erm, I lost my way."

"Not to worry, Dear. You're the transfer student I was expecting, yes?"

John nodded then scanned the class. New classes always looked the same, just a bunch of mildly curious faces. There were always some hot girls (mostly clad together), some really douchebag-looking guys, and a bunch of unmemorable faces. And this class was no exception.

The teacher went to her computer. "Let me just check you in," she said. "I'm Miss Todd, by the way."

John nodded again, feeling increasingly awkward before the class.

Then Miss Todd, the students, and John himself turned to face the door as it swung suddenly open. Standing in the doorway was the tall, lean figure of a boy holding a smartphone. Clad in a black button-up, he was just slightly more neatly-pressed than a typical student. But that wasn't what caught John's attention. No, there was something else about his effortless yet careful footsteps as he swaggered across the room. Almost as if each step had a distinct purpose. With his dark curls and the sharp, pale features of his face, the boy somehow managed to be awkward and agile and _arrogant_ all at once. All within a couple of steps.

"Sherlock _Holmes_," spat Miss Todd, all the sweetness instantly missing from her voice. "Put that phone away... And you are aware that class started 20 minutes ago?"

The boy's hand remained stagnant around his phone. He merely glanced at the board which had some names scribbled across it. "A study of the development of the early European sonnet?" said the boy. "I see I didn't miss much."

"Well, you also missed the introduction of your newest classmate," Miss Todd said, changing the subject as if to mask her irritation.

The boy glanced at John then back at his phone's screen. "It must be difficult, eh? Moving schools as much as you do, all because of your Dad's employment. He serves in which branch of the military? Oh, and that's not even to mention having to leave your girlfriend behind at your old school. And mid baseball season! Tis, tis, such a shame. You being starting pitcher and all. Oh, where are my manners?" he held out his hand and looked up from his phone for the first time. "It's Sherlock Holmes."

John shook the outstretched hand, trying to guise his pronounced confusion. "I'm sorry but, how did you know all that?"

"Sherlock— " Miss Todd warned.

His words came fast and sharp, and John couldn't help but listen blankly.

"You've transferred here in the middle of a semester yet you don't look nervous in the least. On the contrary, you seem quite bored. So you move often then. So what possible career choice would cause a family such abundant relocations? I'd say big business, but no, the state of your clothing is far too modest for that. Modest and dull, so clearly you don't belong to some clan of hippie nomads. The military then, an obvious fit. You've got a bead bracelet on your right wrist. You're too masculine to have made that yourself. So it was a gift, correct? From a girlfriend, judging by the care in which it's been preserved. And then you've also got the obvious stature of an athlete. Not soccer, because you lack the tan lines on your shins. Not basketball or football do to your… erm, unfortunate lack of height. Baseball was my best guess. And that symbol on the pin on your bag right there, MVHS. A quick Google search for Manson View High School's Baseball roaster told me that there are only three juniors on the varsity team this year. So unless you're Juan Pablo Alverez or Stacey Albot—" he flashed him the roaster he'd pulled up on his cell phone, "then it's nice to meet you, John Watson."

John merely gaped at the boy. After a while, he said, "That's amazing, brilliant."

"Yeah, you get used to it," said some guy in the front of the class.

"I got everything right then?" asked Sherlock with a sly sort of smile.

"Almost," said John, holding up his wrist. "But the bracelets from my kid sister."

"Dammit," he muttered. "No girlfriend at all then?"

"No. But still," said John, "_amazing._"

"You hear that, Holmes?" said the same guy. "He's impressed and single. Maybe you should ask the poof to homecoming."

Laughter erupted throughout the classroom, and John couldn't keep a blush from invading his cheeks.

"Enough!" Said Miss Todd. "Boys, take a seat."

Sherlock shuffled quickly to a seat in the back of the class. Seeing as it was a doubles desk, John took the only other available seat beside him.

"Idiots, all of them," Sherlock mumbled.

"You figured all that stuff out," said John, "like magic."

"Not magic," he said. "Deduction."


	2. Chapter 2

A series of uneventful hours fallowed. It became increasingly clear that no one particularly desired John's company, despite how badly he desired theirs. So instead he moved through the halls in silence, and ate his lunch (a meager granola bar and juice box that he'd hastily packed that morning) and sat alone on the outskirts of the dining quad.

Finally, John arrived at his last period of the day: chemistry.

His teacher was a horse-faced man in horn rimmed spectacles.

"Hi, um, I'm new," John explained.

"Watson, is it?" he asked. John nodded. "Right then. We're studying exothermic reactions. Did you read that far in your old school? No, right then. I'll partner you up with my top student since we mostly work in pairs."

John held his breath, hoping that his assumption as to who this top student was would prove inaccurate.

"Sherlock Holmes is at the desk to the right."

_Dammit. _

John found Sherlock pretty quickly. He was sitting amidst a number of vials, not wearing goggles like the other students.

John waited for him to look up from his work. After a few uncomfortable minutes, John realized that that was unlikely to happen. So instead he cleared his throat. "I'm supposed to be your new lab partner."

Sherlock held out his hand. "I need a clean test tube."

John ran his eyes across the table. "There's one a few feet away from you."

"Yes, I'm well aware. I need it _in my hand_."

"Are you serious!" sputtered John, handing Sherlock the test tube regardless.

"Don't make such a fuss," said Sherlock. "I'll do all the assignments in this class. You're very lucky to have been assigned my partner."

John took a seat beside him. "Are you always this arrogant?"

"Only when I'm conscious," he said. "So 85 percent of the time."

John laughed slightly.

Encouraged, Sherlock went on, "So you're close then, to your sister?"

"What? Oh yeah. Well my mum passed on so it's just me and my dad. I take care of her a lot. She's only eight."

Sherlock looked up from his chemicals.

"HgSOL2," he said.

"What was that?"

"The chemical I need," Sherlock said. "HgSOL2."

John looked at the labels then handed him the proper vial. "You know most people would say 'I'm sorry' upon hearing someone's mum died."

"Why should I?" Sherlock noted. "I didn't kill her."

John gaped at him. "Okay, okay, how about 'I feel your pain' then?"

"But I don't," said Sherlock. "How very rude it would be, to claim I comprehend something very personal to you when in fact I do not. I can't honestly say I _feel _anything in regards to your mother's passing. Hand me that beaker."

John handed it over. "You don't really give a shit about other people, do you?"

"I'm a high functioning sociopath, John Watson, and I will never understand why you ordinary people can waste so much energy caring. Caring about people, about grades, and pets, and the outcomes of sporting events. People die and cats piss and teams lose. How does any of that stuff even matter?"  
John watched his slender hands as they mixed two substances.

"I just… I don't know. I need to study."

"Abrupt subject change. Clever. See that guy over there in the green?"

John looked over. "Oh, him. The one that called me a poof today?"

"I doubled the ingredients in his reaction while he was chatting up some girl."

"So wh—" John began, but he was unable to finish. A bubbling substance erupted from the boy's glass and quickly oozed and steamed up. The boy yelped, jumping back.

John's eyes went round. He joined with the rest of the class's incessant laughter as the boy whined and jumped around the mess.

"You did that?" he muttered, his voice breathy from laughter.

"He deserved it, wouldn't you say?"

"So do you just go around using science to avenge everyone who pisses you off?"

"No, they all piss me off. But Anderson embarrassed you. So I ruined his grade, his ego, and his new sneakers."

A smile worked its way onto John lips. "Erm, well thank you then."

"Don't mention it," said Sherlock. "Especially not when a teachers around."

John arrived at classroom 221b early the next day, which is more than could be said about Sherlock. The dark haired boy waltzed into class some fifteen minutes after the bell.

"Mr. Holmes," quipped the teacher. "Another tardy; what do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I might not be punctual, Mrs. Todd, but at least I'm persistent."

He took his seat beside John. "Now, what am I to waste my time with today?"

"We're supposed to read and discuss this poem, Lullaby by W.H. Auden," John answered.

Sherlock peered down at the textbook. His eyes swept across the stanzas quickly with determination. After a remarkably short time, he looked back up at John. "I'm done."

"Okay, um… what'd you think?"  
Sherlock's lips formed a slight pout. "It's absurdity," he said.

"Really?" asked John. "Which part?"

"All of it," he said. "It's all just trivial words."

John stared at him for a moment. "You… you don't understand it at all, do you?"

"Not. One. Bit."

John couldn't keep from laughing.

"It's not funny!" said Sherlock, quick and defensive.

John cleared his throat. "I'm sorry it's just that, you're so smart! But here, I'll explain it. Auden writes _Lay Your Sleeping head, my love, human on my faithless arm._"

"See, right there!" explained Sherlock. "Of course his lover's head is _human_. It isn't as though he's dating a chimpanzee!"

John laughed again. "No, no. What he's saying is that, well, the head feels human because it's so real, I guess, so worldly. Like to be a human means being a whole mess of things. That's why the author goes on to say _let the living creature lie, mortal, guilty, but to me, the entirely beautiful. _It's like… He realizes that to really love another human being means to expect inadequacies and contradictions. And, I think, that that's what so beautiful about falling in love. At the end of the day, you have to really love the complexity of another. At least, that's what I got."

Sherlock just started at him as though he were speaking a foreign language.

"Let's try again," said John. "Haven't you ever, I don't know, fancied a girl?"

Sherlock shook his head: no.

John's neck felt suddenly hot. "Um, a boy then? Which is okay."

"I know it's okay," he answered quickly. "And no, not a boy either."

"Oh," said John, confused.

"I don't do that," Sherlock said. "Like I told you before, I don't kill brain cells chasing down girls to go to school dances, hold hands in the halls, or get shagged. I don't have relationships. Or friends. Why would I want useless apprehensions when there's so many better things worth thinking about?"

John paused, unsure of the best course to take. After a moment, he looked down at his book and read the poem again. "Well Auden suggests that… that a person can love by themselves. _The hermit's carnal ecstasy_, he writes."

"Oh I get it," said Sherlock, "Instead of going through all that 'loving the complexity of another' poppycock, a hermit can learn to love alone."

Sherlock grinned, seeming quite pleased with his analysis.

"Yeah, I guess so," said John.

Sherlock snapped the book shut and leaned back in his seat.

"Don't you think we should, I don't know, at lease _pretend_ to be working?" asked John, glancing uneasily at the teachers desk.

"She won't be bothering us," replied Sherlock. "She's in a good mood."

"How can you tell?"

"She's always in a good mood after a good snog with the librarian."

"What? How do you know?"

A smile lit up the boy's colorless features. "She was reapplying her lipstick when I came in. It's first period; girls don't usual touch up until at least forth, unless it's had some reason to smear. She's got a hair on her blouse that is far too light to be her own, and that library book on her open on desk was checked out today."

"Brilliant," mumbled John.

**Hey guys : ) I'm putting quite a bit of effort into this fic so it'd be lovely to get some reviews! Let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

The outdoor dining quad was abuzz. In such a frenzy, it was hard to imagine that every single teen babbling about had a place, a table, a hangout, and a group of friends to which they belonged. The intricate order of the high school campus was such a delicate, complex thing that it often went unnoticed.

Well, it certainly didn't go unnoticed by John. He viewed the structure at an utter loss, like a child standing before a double-dutch jump rope with absolutely no clue where or when to jump in.

The first day, John had sat alone. At the time, he felt no shame considering he hadn't yet had the opportunity to make friends. On the second day, however, he had tried a bit harder to make conversation in class, just hoping for a lunch time invitation. By the third day, he was feeling quite embarrassed to still occupy his solemn spot near the back wall. He was sure people would begin to notice his pathetic solitude. The fourth day was spent visiting every bathroom in the school just to kill time and make himself appear busy. That Friday, with fear of being branded as a social outcast (or a kid with a notably small bladder) John found his way into the center of the quad.

Sherlock was sitting to the left of the library underneath a small tree. A black coat was neatly spread out for him to sit on. He wasn't eating, just scribbling inside some kind of notebook.

John wandered over to Sherlock. They had spent quite a few hours chatting in class. For the nonsocial oddity that he was, Sherlock wasn't at all bad at conversation. He might occasionally fall silent or say horribly arrogant things, but overall, John found Sherlock to at least be _interesting._ Maddeningly interesting, in fact, to the point where John would stay up at night pondering over how such a curious brain could function.

"May I join you?" John asked, feeling awkward with his school-boy lunch tray.

Sherlock squinted up at him through the spotted shade. "Yes. But those kids over there, they'll likely call you gay if you do."

John glanced over at a nearby table: A few meretriciously attractive girls and guys with athletic builds. Most looked familiar, especially the one that had had that 'accident' in chemistry on John's first day. "How come?"

"Because they think I'm gay which makes you gay by association."

John chuckled and sat down where Sherlock had made room on the coat (a little too close to avoid rumors, he noted). "Well, fuck them."

Sherlock grinned. "They're too busy fucking each other. That's what got me in their bad books to begin with!"

"What'd you do?" John asked, adjusting his lunch to balance on his lap.

"See that skinny, black girl? I merely pointed out some implications that the state of her knees suggested after her 'sleepover at a friend's house' one day in freshman year. Her father heard and, well, let's just say she spent the summer at Bible Camp."

John laughed, taking a bite of a fry before offering the pack to Sherlock, who declined. "What's her name, anyway?"

"Sally Donovan," replied Sherlock. "And her rat-faced boyfriend's name is Anderson."

"So they hate you then?"

"They all hate me," said Sherlock nonchalantly. "And I must warn you, your association with me will likely gain you a similar reputation."

John didn't know what to say. Of course, the thought of social suicide did cross his mind. But he actually really _liked_ Sherlock, for some insane reason, and it wasn't as though many other students were racing to sit beside him on the bus.

"If you're alright with me, I'm alright with you," John finally said.

. . . . .. . .

"John?"

"Yes, what is it this time? A beaker? Some liquid hydrogen?" asked John, running his eyes across their lab station.

"No, no," replied Sherlock. "I was wondering if I could come to your house after school?"

John's eyes went round. _So much for 'I don't have friends' he wanted to say._ "Yeah, sure."

"Excellent. Now, you mix this solution while I go obtain more chemicals."

When Sherlock was out of earshot, the two girls at the station in front of John suddenly spun around. "Watson, isn't it?" said one.

She was a pretty little thing with doe-like eyes, and John recognized her from the table of Sherlock-haters from lunch.

"Uh, yeah. Hello," he said.

The other girl was an attractive enough blonde with a long nose and freckles. "I'm Alice, and this is Molly," said the blonde promptly.

John smiled at them both. "Nice to meet you."

They glanced over to the other side of the room where Sherlock was keeping himself busy amongst the chemical shelves.

"So you're friends with Sherlock Holmes?" asked the pretty one, Molly.

"I-I'm getting to know him. We tolerate each other," John managed.

"But how?" said Alice. "I mean, why you?"

"Pardon me?" said John.

"What I mean is, Sherlock doesn't give anyone the time of day. Molly here has been practically in love with him since we were fresh—"

"Alice!" Molly shrieked, horrified.

"Oh, it isn't as though Sherlock can't already tell," said Alice. "The guy's a genius. But, I don't know, he only talks to you John…"

John was confused. "So you guys don't hate him? I thought you and Molly and Anderson and everyone couldn't stand him."

"Well, he's _Sherlock_," said Alice, as though that would explain everything. "Nobody can stand his bigoted arrogance…but God, any girl would melt if he asked them on a date. Just the thought of being his special exception, you know? And those _cheekbones…_" John could see Molly' face light up at the thought. "And guy's like Anderson, well, they're just jealous and they don't like what they can't understand."

John nodded. He was beginning to see this school in a different light now. "So you want me to, what, put in a good word for you?"

The girls both blushed. Before they could reply, the bell rang. John offered them a reassuring grin, packed up his things, and left.

"So I'll meet you in the front after school?" Sherlock was walking beside John in the halls so suddenly it made him jump.

"Sure. So you never told me that girls are all over you," said John.

"Which ones did you talk to?"

"Just … a couple. You said everyone here hates you."

"Yes well, their irrational hormones may cause them to throw themselves at me. But I assure you, beyond that sense of wanting what they can't have, those girls like me no better than they like you."

_I wish_, thought John.

"They're ordinary, boring," Sherlock went on.

"Well so am I, and we get along pretty well."

Sherlock shot him a sideways glance. "Yes, I know. But you're tolerably smart in some matters, you don't giggle like an idiot, and although you admire my intelligence enough to fuel my ego, you aren't constantly hiking up you skirt in the hopes of catching my attention. I'd say you're far superior company."

John laughed. "Well what's the use of that? You didn't even notice I'm wearing a new push-up bra."

Sherlock snickered before turning like a bat and disappearing down the hall.

**Hi there! Next chapter should be tones of fun so stay tuned : ) and please, if you've bothered to read this far, I hope your enjoying yourself enough to review! It means so much!**


	4. Chapter 4

"What are you always writing in there, anyway?" John asked by way of introduction.

Sherlock looked up from his notebook. He struck an odd figure, lounging his weight against the side of the school so that his pale skin caught the light and the lean muscles of his neck and shoulders were strained and defined.

"Observations," Sherlock replied, snapping the book shut.

"Could have guessed that. Anyway, I live just down the road. You don't mind walking, do you?"  
Sherlock pushed off from against the wall. "Not at all."

They walked the path to John's house, which was just now beginning to feel familiar. John realized that he'd only ever walked that road alone, and it made him strangely happy to have some company. (Even if Sherlock had been babbling on about how the chlorine in the varsity swim captain's hair _clearly _displayed that he'd been shagging the assistant coach).

Eventually they reached John's house—A small, one story flat with yellow tinted walls and a sweet flower garden. "It isn't much," said John.

"It's cute," Sherlock mused. "It's like you."

"What?" said John.

"It's like you. Small, simple yet… amiable." He smiled, a quick jerk at the corner of his lips. Then he ushered himself inside.

John opened the door.

Harry was there immediately. Her little head (topped with a princess crown) peered up at Sherlock curiously. "Who's this? Is this your friend, Jawn?"  
"Something like that," John replied, closing the door behind him.  
Sherlock and Harry followed John to his room. On the way, they passed by Mr. Watson. He was a surprisingly tall, sturdy man with sandy colored hair. He was passing through the kitchen with a cane, limping severely.

"Hi Dad, this is one of my classmates, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock shook the man's hand. He grinned. "Nice to meet ya. You're a junior too?"

John was holding his breath, hoping that his friend would refrain from making some obscene observation or snide comment. Thankfully, Sherlock merely nodded. "Yes, we're lab partners."

"Working on a project?"

"Just hanging out," said John.

"Got ya. Well, I'm off to the office. Keep an eye on your sister."

With that, the man was gone.

"He works in an office now because of the injury," explained John.

Sherlock nodded.

"Did Jawn tell you?" asked Harry. "Our mom's in _Heaven._"

"The deceased don't go to Heaven. They're taken to a special placed and burned. Or they get buried and deteriorate in the dirt. Or maybe they're donated to science. Seeing as your living room lacks an urn and that John is horrendous at all things science, your mother is likely buried in a grave somewhere."

John's jaw dropped. "_Sherlock!" _

"What? It serves no purpose to keep her stupid on the subject."

Harry merely smiled. "You talk like Scar from Lion King."

…

When Harry was settled in the living room watching Disney Channel, John showed Sherlock to his room. It was mostly bare, seeing as he hadn't been living there long: a desk, a bed, a closet, some cardboard boxes that had yet to be unpacked.

"This'll do," announced Sherlock. He kicked his shoes off and quickly buried himself into John's unmade, queen-sized bed.

"What are you…"

"Napping," said Sherlock, circling himself with grey sheets.

"You're… um, you're tired?"

"Stayed up all night reading into a case. Two murders and a stolen prized tulip in downtown London. You're tired too, judging by the bags under your eyes. Sleep."

John actually _was_ quite tired. Harry had kept him up, crying over her lost stuffed bear until John finally found it beneath the sofa at 2:30 in the morning.

He felt weird about it. But then again, everything in relation to Sherlock was bizarre by nature, so he lay beside him on the opposite side of the bed.

"So you're a gardener, then?"

"What?"

Sherlock's face was still buried in the pillows. "Those flowers in the front are freshly planted. Harry's far too young and your father has a hurt leg, so you obviously arranged them there."

"Oh… gardens remind Harry of our mom. She refuses to move in if I don't promise to add one."

"You're a good person, John," said Sherlock, as though it were an observation as opposed to a compliment. "Not shut up. I'm sleeping."

….

John was asleep in the deepest way—the way in which reality feels like memories and thoughts are almost matter, composing everything. But after one sharp intake of breath, he was entirely awake.

The sun filtering in through the open window reminded John that it was the middle of the day. He sat up, and his senses were assaulted by the thick smell of smoke in the air.

"Pleasant dreams?" asked Sherlock. He was standing by the window, dragging at a cigarette. John had seen enough to realize that, unlike many 16-year-olds, Sherlock smoked like someone who knew how. The cigarette was effortlessly wedged between his fingers, and he took in long, lazy inhales.

"What are you doing?" John barked.

"I _was_ smoking." He tossed the empty Marlboro box at John. It landed on the bed in front of him. "Tell your father that he's out of cigarettes."

John was nearly sputtering with anger. "Where did you find these?"  
"Well they had to be in a top drawer, didn't they? To keep out of Harry's reach. The drawer to the left of the refrigerator, to be exact… so obvious."

"But how did you know—"

"That your father smokes?" asked Sherlock, taking another drag. "I smelt tobacco on you the first day we met. The smell was too faint and you're far too innocent to use it yourself, plus I'd imagine you'd want good lungs for baseball. Today you came to class with dark circles beneath your eyes and you yawned approximately twice as often. So I decided today was the proper day to formulate this scheme. Simple."

"So you've planned to steal my cigarettes since the first day we met?"

Sherlock shrugged. "My retched brother has seen to it that I can't buy them myself anywhere in town."

"Because they're bad for you!" said John. "You start smoking now and you'll barely be breathing by the time you're 50."

"So? Breathing is boring."

"Boring? Really?" John had made his way out of bed and across the room.

"This keeps the mind sharp," he said, savoring a particularly deep inhale.

"Well some of us actually prefer to breathe in this house!" John shouted. "Harry is right across the hall and the last thing she needs is your second-hand smoke!"

"The window was open," he replied calmly.

"I don't care! You know, I might have just _given_ you the damn cigarettes had you asked."

Sherlocks eyebrows twitch in ward as though he hadn't even thought of that. "Really?"

"Yes! But now you can forget about it, after you used me and pretended to be my friend!"

Sherlock frowned. "Inaccurate, John. I told you on multiple occasions that I simply do not make friends. I can't be blamed for your incapability to listen. It's not my fault you thought you were in some way _special_."

John opened his mouth then closed it without saying a word.

"Well," said Sherlock, "You're clearly upset with me. I'll just be leaving then. Lovely time, it's been."

Sherlock saw himself out while John just sat there, livid beyond words.

**Hi! Thanks for reading and please review! It makes my day and this fic has been getting very few reviews in comparison to some of my other writings. Anyway, best wishes! **


	5. Chapter 5

John had just unpacked his bag when Sherlock came waltzing into class uncharacteristically early. (Which is to say, he still arrived after the bell, but less so than usual).

John kept his eyes on his work as Sherlock took the seat beside him. "_Writing a sonnet_? Good God, it's like Miss Todd is trying to kill me. Does she really think these sappy assignments will do us any good? Ugh. Of course, you'll do just fine. What are you writing about, anyway? The beauty of a summer breeze? The freshly cut grass of a baseball diamond? The surplus of porn you've got saved on your computer history? Just to name a few subjects you'd serenate… John? _John?"_  
But he refused to look up from his work.

"Don't tell me you're still upset over yesterday…. _John_?"

He said nothing.

"Well can you at least tell me what to write this bloody poem about?"

"How about cigarettes," muttered John without averting his gaze, "since you seem so fond of them."

"That's a brilliant idea," said Sherlock, unfazed.

John exhaled and tried to ignore Sherlock's excessive pencil scratching.

"John? John? … John, what rhymes with 'tobacco'?"

"How bout' _bugger off_?" he replied.

"Now be rational, John, that doesn't rhyme in the slightest."

The silence stretched between them until Sherlock grabbed a handful of money from his wallet and dropped it down onto John's notebook. "That should cover your father's cigarettes. There, now you can stop being angry with me."

When John looked up, he had to fight to keep his voice down. "It isn't the money, you git!"

"Oh, don't be so offended. I could have charmed any girl into buying me cigs, John. Or have paid off any guy. I only picked you because I mildly enjoy your company."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, so I'm to feel privileged, am I?"

"Precisely."

John had had enough. He stood up and relocated to the empty seat beside Molly Hooper across the room.

"Oh, hello," she said.

"You don't mind if I …"

"No, not at all," she said. "Actually it's been quite lonely since Alice transferred classes."

A pretty girl who John recognized as Sally Donovan spun around to face them. "But you still have us, Molly."

Her boyfriend, Anderson, turned as well. He had long, shaggy hair that served as a good distraction from his too-big nose.

"Get in a fight with your boyfriend?" he asked John, sneering.

John's cheeks flushed. "No! What I mean is, he isn't even my friend—just a bothersome git."

Sally smirked. "Yeah, well, you should really keep it that way. Sherlock's a phycopath. You know what he does in his free time, don't you?"

As a matter of fact, John didn't.

"He buries his nose into all this freaky murder stuff," Sally said, he eyes gleaming with misplaced interest and disgust. "He reads about all these unsolved cases and then snoops around crime scenes and stuff. He gets off on it."

Come to think of it, John could suddenly piece together things Sherlock had said that made sense to him now. Stuff about clues and observations.

"He even volunteers at the mortuary," Sally went on.

"Probably gets hard shagging dead bodies," Anderson mumbled. John could see Molly shiver at the vulgar image.

"You can hang out with us if you want," Sally said. "It's a way safer bet. I've got a feeling that one day, solving cases won't be enough for that creep."

And with that, John had made friends out of mutual dislike for another.

… ….. …..

John had never been in a situation in which his popularity was defined by how well he could hate others. Sally, Anderson, and a few others seemed rather _obsessed_ to the point where their loathing mingled with admiration, though of course they'd never admit to it.

"You know what he said today in bio? He said he couldn't name all the planets!" said Anderson between bites of hamburger. "He's got a genius GPA and he doesn't know the bloody solar system."

John glanced over at Sherlock, sitting unaccompanied beneath his favorite tree. It'd been a week and a half of avoiding conversation. The anger John had felt quickly faded and replaced itself with a mindful warning. He didn't _hate_ Sherlock, not like the others; John merely found it in his best interest to stay away.

"I'd trade my knowledge of third-grade astronomy for a brain like his," said another guy, Greg.

"Would you really want to be like _him, _Lestrade?" asked Anderson.

Greg merely shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt my G.P.A."

Greg was a gentle giant of sorts; big enough to be the linebacker of the schools indisputably shitty football team (although rumor has it that Greg was turning down football scholarships in favor of pursuing criminal justice) and mostly mellow.

"He's looking this way," said another guy with bright red hair.

"He's looking at you, John," said Sally.

And he was. He made no effort to hide it—Sherlock stared piercingly so that his bright blue eyes looked like that of a cat or an owl. He kept his gaze there for several long seconds before looking back down at his book.

The crowd around John burst into laughter.

"I think he really does fancy you, John," said Anderson.

John fought the urge to look over at Molly and Alice, who would simply die of envy were that statement true.

"He's asexual," John said. "Not into boys or girls or anything."

"That's just a cover!" spat the red head.

"He looks at you different somehow. Probably because you practically fawned over him that first day and spent all that time hanging around him afterward," said Sally.

"I was only shocked, is all," said John quickly. "I was… amazed. Aren't you usually?"

Sally shook her head. "Mostly everyone just calls him an arse and that's the end of it, but I suppose he was relatively less of a prick around you."

"Because he's a poof," snorted Anderson.

"You say it likes it's such a bad thing," muttered John. Which of course was a mistake. Everyone's attention suddenly focused on him, as if the rest of the quad had disappeared into oblivion.

"I only mean," said John, "you've got good reasons to insult Sherlock. I just don't think sexual preference is one of them."

Anderson's eyes narrowed. "You're not… I mean, you're not really—"

"I'm _not_ gay," said John.

"Good," said Anderson. "Because that's just disgusting."

**Happy Fourth of July to any Americans reading this fic For the reader who hoped for Lestrade, here you go. Please review and tell me what else want out of this fic and I might comply! Thanks. **


	6. Chapter 6

Lab days in chemistry usually consisted of John awkwardly attempting to look busy as Sherlock did the labs entirely on his own, quickly and efficiently (while often conducting other experiments on the side) and still adding John's name to the end result.

Sometimes Sherlock would mutter to himself, but mostly their station was silent.

"Have any distilled water?" Alice asked one day, smiling so wide her cheekbones raised her lab goggles up. "We're out."

Sherlock looked up. "That bottle there."

John handed Alice the bottle. "_Thank you_," she said, her voice piping up an octave.

Sherlock's focus turned back to his work, but he still managed to drone, "Alice, wearing the extra perfume won't do you any good. John doesn't even notice scents, and he has no intention of taking you to the homecoming dance."

Her jaw dropped slightly. John's head snapped in her direction. "What? I—I mean, you smell lovely."

Her cheeks turned a soft red color and she quickly turned around.

"You're an arse," whispered John fiercely.

"Oh, are we back on speaking terms?"

"Why'd you have to put her on the spot like that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was merely an observation, John. You don't fancy her, so I don't see how it matters."

"How do you—" John began hotly, fighting to keep his voice a whisper. "How do you know I don't fancy her?"  
"You're eyes glance at the clock more frequently than they do toward her."

"Well maybe I haven't given her much thought. But that doesn't give you authority to make her feel awkward for your own amusement!" sputtered John. "This is why people hate you, Sherlock."

And as he said it, John could see the smallest crease appear between Sherlock's brows. His eyes cast downward toward his work, and he fell silent for the rest of the period.

…..

Anderson and his pals were behind John in a moment.

"I knew it, didn't I?" said Anderson, putting a bony hand on John's shoulder. He spun him around so that John could see his sallow face.

"What are you talking about?" asked John. He had been passing the side of the school of his way home, and some people had stopped to watch the event that was formulating. "Get your hands off me!"

"That's not what you tell the other boys, is it?" said the ginger behind Anderson.

"What?"

"We're not mad that you're gay," said Anderson. "We're mad that you're a fucking_ liar_." He pushed John hard. With his backpack setting him off balance, John fell against a nearby fence. "Which one of us were you trying to get with, anyway?"

"What are you talking about?" John shouted, now fully aware of the assembling crowd.

"You lied about being a poof!"

"I—"

"Greg found _this_ at the table yesterday." Anderson tossed John's English notebook straight toward his chest. "We saw your little love poem."

Confused, John looked down at his notebook. It was opened to his sonnet assignment and _ohhh._ Written was a very loving poem titled 'Sonnet to Harry'.

"Is Harry your boyfriend," laughed one of the guys.

"You don't understand—" began John, stepping forward. But three steps proved too many because Anderson reflexively punched him in the stomach, knocking his breath away.

Through his watery eyes, John saw the stunned expression of Anderson's friends.

"Well you saw it!" he huffed. "He was trying to come … _touch_ me."

John swung, making contact his Anderson's face before he even gave it a moment's thought. He heard an ugly crack and Anderson cried out.

The other two were on John in a second, knocking him off his feet. He hit the cold ground with his backpack only slightly breaking his fall. Someone kicked his stomach. Then someone else did the same to his rear. All the while he fought to regain his footing.

Pain and embarrassment consuming his every thought, John only barely noticed that someone had given a loud cry. Then in an instant, the red-head who'd been kicking John was on the ground at his side.

John looked up, squinting through the blaring sun. He saw the long, lean body of Sherlock, looking like some misshapen shadow. He had the last of John's attackers in front of him.

"Really, McKee, why don't you just step aside?" said Sherlock.

"Because I'm going to beat you good and—"

"_Well_,"he cut in, "beat you _well_."

Then he punched, hard and quick, giving John laneway to knock the feet out from under him.

John shot up, now fully aware that Anderson (bleeding rapidly from the nose) and his friends had all backed away with dirty looks on their faces.

Sherlock was several feet away from the crowd when John caught up to him.

"Thanks," he managed lamely. He was confused; the idea that this boy who disliked nearly everyone, who he'd barely been acquainted with for a week before having a falling out, would come to his aid like that…. It nearly astonished him. "But you know, I could've…"

"No you couldn't," he cut in curtly. "It was three on one and you're sort of tiny, John. One more kick could have broken a rib."

"I—" he began. "Well, thanks regardless."

As John walked beside Sherlock, his body aching furiously, he became aware of the fact that they were both trailing the path to his house. He didn't complain.

"Did I… did I break Anderson's nose?" John asked after a moment.

A small smirk twisted the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "God I hope so."

They laughed, which hurt John's ribs terribly.

The house was empty when they got there (Harry at her Thursday dance class and Mr. Watson at work). They went to the kitchen, where John found some frozen peas to press against his swollen midsection.

Sherlock, sitting across from him at the table, watched silently.

"Bloody Hell," John muttered. "Is it always like this here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I think mostly everyone else is rather tolerant."

"I just picked the worst possible… stop smiling!"

"I told you they were arses," said Sherlock simply. "The same way I warned you about myself earlier. You aren't a very good listener, you know."

John sighed lightly. "Guess I'm not, am I?"

"You're bloody persistent in seeking the good in people. It's your weakness."

"Okay, how's this, I'll be completely acceptant of the fact that you're a giant bastard, and we'll get along just fine."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied.

"In the cupboard behind you," said John.

Sherlock leaped up, smiling. "I know," he replied, opening the cupboard and pulling out a case of cigarettes and a lighter. "Just waiting for the okay."

John slumped back on his chair, distracting himself from the pain by watching Sherlock's pouted lips blow strings of silver smoke into the air. Whether they were 'friends' or not, John thought, there was something invisible and strong that gave John the impression that he'd be stuck with Sherlock for quite some time.

**Thanks for reading. Review, yeah?**


	7. Chapter 7

"This is why people think we're a couple, Sherlock," said John lazily.

"What? I only have one bloody day left to write this sonnet and _now_ you're telling me your heterosexuality is too strong to help me?"

They were sitting beneath a tree (_their _tree, as it now so infamously became) at lunchtime. A month had passed and already John's reputation throughout the school had twisted into something he'd never expected.

He was now John Watson, Sherlock's side-kick. Or at least, side-kick was the most decent term used. Others included boyfriend, lover, BFF, or pet.

But he couldn't much blame them. Sherlock was a creature of solitude… who happen to only accept his company and his company only. He couldn't exactly explain it either.

"But a sonnet to _me_? I'm hardly worth a poem."

"Of course you aren't worth a poem. The queen of England could appear at my doorstep yielding all the powers of the galaxy in a horseshoe and it _still_ wouldn't be enough to inspire me to write a poem."

"Ugh. You've had so long to do this assignment," John muttered.

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut and his head suddenly rolled down onto John's shoulder. "But I need _your_ help. I _can't deal_ with all this insipid, fluffy nonsense!" he whined.

"So you come to me, King of Insipid Fluffy Nonsense?" He brushed Sherlock off, hoping no one had seen.

"My brother is very insistent that I don't fail this class," said Sherlock. John had heard about the brother quite often and had always thought it weird that he was such a parenting figure. He hadn't met him because, although Sherlock was at his house every day after school, he had never actually been to his. "John, help me with this and I'll… show you something."

"Fine. Fine. What is it that you have to show me?"

Sherlock grinned. "We'll call it my… cure for boredom."

"Again, this is where the roomers come from!"

They laughed together. "Pervert. Now help me."

"Okay," said John. "The title is 'Ode to John'? Very well, that's as original as it's going to get. Now, erm, what do you want to write? What do you admire about me?"  
It was actually a subject John had been curious about for quite some time.

"You're my friend."

"I thought you didn't have friends."

"I don't have friends. I just have one."

Something in John's chest constricted a little. He let out a breath. "Okay, why me then? Why just me?"

Sherlock eyed the ground for a long moment. A few minutes passed, and John finally had to ask, "Ello?"

"Shhh, mind palace."

John exhaled loudly and took the opportunity to look over some history notes.

"Okay," said Sherlock. "Don't you dare get sentimental over this."

"Wouldn't dream of it," replied John. He was holding his breath. This question he'd been pondering to himself for quite some time. Why was he,John Watson, Sherlock's side-kick after all?

"You're exceptional to me because—" But he paused. "Yes Lestrade?"

John hadn't noticed but they were both now beneath Lestrade's shadow. John snapped the binder containing the notebook shut.

"I, um," he began then stopped.

"Very profound. Is there anything else?" asked Sherlock with one raised eyebrow.

"I was just wondering if… I don't know, if I could clarify something? Especially to you, John."

John was surprised. He had never really been too close with the quiet giant while he was friends with his peers. "Sure."

"I just wanted to say, if you're gay or straight or bi or Canadian or alien or dinosaur, it's all alright by me. I didn't think showing Anderson your notebook would, well, cause him to do what he did to you. I thought I knew his limits but, um, I guess I don't. I know this is late. But sorry."

He just stood there, awkward and apologetic and large. John, who was utterly shocked, merely nodded.

"Harry's his sister," said Sherlock.

John stood up. "But still, thanks. You know you're welcome to eat here."

Sherlock made a grunt of annoyance. Lestrade, who seemed to have missed it, took a seat in the grass regardless.

John put away the notebook, promising Sherlock that they would get to it later. The hour passed quite decently and then the three parted ways for class.

…..

Sherlock slammed the door to John's room shut.

"Okay," he whispered fiercely. "Even though you haven't helped me with my poem in the least, I still feel inclined to show you this."

He slapped a folder down onto the floor where he and John were now sitting. John dug through it, finding new paper clippings and other ragtag items. "Am I supposed to be impressed with any of this?"

"You're supposed to be interested," said Sherlock. "See here, look at this one."

It was a newspaper titled 'Mascot Incident, Teen killed'—a gruesome bit of reason news. "Heard about this a few weeks back," said John.

"Yes, a fascinating case. San Dimas Saints and Bonita Bear Cats have a classic feud, being rival schools and all. When the end of football season comes and the teams prepare for their big games, suddenly something goes wrong. The Saints think it'll be a great laugh to high jack the bearcat mascot costume, stuff it with garbage, hang it up so that students can take a few whacks at it… Only after it's been shot and beat does anyone notice that the body of Bonita's star quarterback inside."

John caught the mad gleam in Sherlock's eyes as he retold the horrific event, and John was reminded of some not-so-nice things Sally had said about him in the past.

"So?"  
"So the schools are back in session now, which means it's time for a tad bit more investigation."

"_More_ investigation?" asked John.

"Well of course I already went to the crime scene while it was still fresh," said Sherlock. "Got some stuff, but nothing much to go off of."

"Do you do this often then?" asked John in awe. "Figure crimes?"

Sherlock smiled. "Tabaco's not my only drug, John."

**Hi there. I'd just like to address something I've been getting a lot. YES, this is a rather AMERICAN fic. I'm sorry if that bothers you, but I'm honestly more focused on capturing the characters as best I can in a traditional high school setting. It's an AU, after all. Thanks so much for reading. Please review. I write so much faster when I get more feed back. Love you all!**


	8. Chapter 8

When John found Sherlock again, he was in a crowd of four hot girls: two brunettes (one tall and curvy and the other short and slim) a gorgeous blonde and a freckled redhead. His skull was rested on the shoulder of the blonde, with the three other girls in close proximity—holding his hand or running fingers through his hair.

"Wha…"

"Jawn," Sherlock sniffled, tears running down his cheeks. "We shouldn't have come here, I can't—"

"It'll be okay," cooed the curvy brunette.

Sherlock wiped his eyes. "This is my friend, John. He came for moral support. He didn't know D-Derrick." As he said the boy's name, Sherlock rolled his face into the girls shoulder and cried some more.

"Sorry," said John, getting it. "I don't think you're receiving the closure you were looking for. Should we leave?"

Sherlock nodded. "You're so brave," said the red head. "Losing a close friend this way must be… terrible."

"Best friends since grade school," said Sherlock, wiping his eyes.

She gave him a full bear hug, which the other girls joined in on. "You just let us know if you ever need to talk," she went on.

Sherlock tapped his cellphone. "Got it. Thanks so much."  
They said goodbye and Sherlock leapt up and joined John.

John, knowing the girls would still be watching, placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Maybe 'supportive friend' would gain him some interest. Probably not.

"You're quite a good actor, you know," said John once they were out of earshot.

"Teenage girls aren't exactly difficult to fool," said Sherlock.

"Well, not when you look like you do," huffed John.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, _you know_," said John, but Sherlock still looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "I'm just saying, of course they're all over you. You're sort of perfect-looking."

"Me?" said Sherlock, mystified. "I always thought you were more appealing to look at. Anyway, I only intended to get the attention of the red head."

"Why her?"

"She had some green paint on her left hand, same color as the rally posters in the front of the school. She's in A.S.B.."

"So?"  
"So the A.S.B room is where they stowed the mascot costume before the rally. Come along." He turned down the hall, navigating through the school as if he'd gone here his entire life. "I guessed by the way she carried herself that she was in some position of power, which explains why she was trusted with these keys to the room."

They unlocked the door (it was afterschool and the place was empty) and Sherlock took the opportunity to look around.

He went straight to the class photo—a large panorama of the entire A.S.B assembly.

"So someone in the class had to have done it, right?" asked John. "Because they're the only students who had access to the mascot costume between when it was stolen and when it was put on display?"

"Good," mused Sherlock. He pressed his index finger over the image of a stocky, dark haired boy in front. "Him."

"Why him?" asked John.

Sherlock huffed as though it were obvious. "There's an old class photo across the room from a few years back. Predictable you didn't notice. He's in it, which tells us he must be a senior this year. He's wearing a football jersey. San Dimas hasn't won in three seasons, so this senior was tired of losing again and again. So there's your motive. He's apparently the strongest person in A.S.B. which means he's physically capable of lifting the body of Bonita's captain which, I'm guessing, is at least 200 pounds. He's had access to this room, plus the alibi of being with the other football players during the actual incident."

"That's it then?" said John, jaw slacked. "You've figured it out just like that?"

"God, let's hope not. Painfully boring. What time is it?"

"Three-thirty," said John.

"Perfect."

With that, Sherlock turned on his heels and left, grabbing a clipboard off a desk on the way. John followed all the way until they reached the football field. Some of the boys there were running round the track while others lifted weights. Sherlock approached the only man on the field.

"Excuse me? Is this the varsity team?" he asked.

The man took a quick glance at him. "Yeah. Tryouts are long over though, kid. And you're a bit lanky for football, don't you think?"

"Actually, I'm a reporter for the school paper," he said, flashing him a press pass. "I was wondering if I could interview a few of your seniors?"

"Yeah," he answered shortly. "Who ya' looking for?"

"I'll start with…" he looked down at his board. "Diego Cervantes?"

The coach called his last name, and the boy from the picture came jogging over. He was taller in person (and more odorous).

"Afternoon. My friend and I are doing interviews for the school paper. Can I ask you some questions?"

"Sure," he said, smiling at the recognition. "What do you want to know?"

John half expected Sherlock to go on a full-blown investigation: _where were you in the night in question at 7:00…._ But he didn't. He remained friendly and undercover, asking usual questions. He scribbled on the board as the boys spoke, and when John looked over his shoulder to see what Sherlock had 'observed' he saw only condescending scribbles "blah blah blah blah".

"Well, thank you," said Sherlock, smiling. "I think I've gotten everything I need for today." Diego shook his hand, and John could see Sherlock suppress a grimace at how sweaty his palm was.

Neither of them spoke until Sherlock decided to sit in the shade of the secluded baseball dugout.

"So?" John prodded.

"Not him, he was visiting his Grandmother on the day of the murder. _How could you possibly know that?_ His football uniform has been recently bleached, leaving the logo on the shoulder to be a paler blue than it should be. Who would care to wash his clothes but not know how to do it properly? A mom? No, no, a mom would have been experienced after four years. Not a father, since he said in the interview that his father passed. A grandma, then. A very attentive one, judging by the uniform and also the smell of a home-cooked Mexican food on his breath. No way would he get away from her long enough to commit a crime. Plus, he wasn't exactly the brightest Saint in the clouds, was he? The simple-minded never go for mysterious, correlated murders; they just don't."

Sherlock stared across the baseball field. He was so magnificent like that, buried deep in a bottomless ditch of thought, that John didn't want to interrupt. After a long while, Sherlock's phone beeped in his pocket.

"Read that to me, John," he ordered.

John rolled his eyes but did as he was told. "Veronica says 'Hi Sherlock : ) Idk if this is too soon but I just wanted to let you know that there's a kick-back at my place (402 San Dimas Drive) 2night and ur welcome to come… you know, get ur mind off things. Oh and ur friend is welcomed 2 ;)'. _Kick-back? _Does that mean there'll be drugs and alcohol?"

"I don't know, but God, I could use a smoke," he said.

"I don't think my dad will let me go to a stranger's party," noted John.

"But I need more to work with, John. I need see more students," said Sherlock.

"You can't do it without me?"

"Of course I can," said Sherlock, "But I don't want to."

It felt something like a compliment to John.

"Just spend the night at my house. Your father will never know."

"Okay. I'll call him," said John.


	9. Chapter 9

When they arrived at Veronica's house (who turned out to be the blonde, John realized) they were ushered into the backyard. Twenty or so students were gathered around, listening to music and drinking out of red plastic cups. John was nervous, but he mimicked Sherlock's calm demeanor.

His eyes went straight to a group smoking hookah in the corner. "_There,_" he murmured.

"The killer?" John asked.

"No, tobacco!" And he was gone, leaving John standing awkwardly near the door. After a moment, a pretty dark-haired girl was suddenly at his side. He recognized her almost instantly as one of Sherlock's fangirls.

"Hi," she peeped. She was smaller than him, which gave John a bit of confidence. "Your friend seems… different."

"Oh yeah, he's just wearing a brave face," John lied.

"I'm Jane, by the way," she said.

"John," he answered.

"You don't mind if a chat with you, do you? I only know a few girls here who are either off making out or too drunk to tolerate."

John laughed. "Not exactly your crowd?"

"Not really."

John looked around. "Me neither." But did he even _have_ a crowd? John wondered. He only really had Sherlock.

He settled on a bench with Jane and they talked pleasantly together. It had been such a long time since John had spoken to a girl (who wasn't in grade school) and he smiled far more than he should have.

Jane was just in the middle of telling John about how her pet turtle is a mastermind at escaping his cage when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Ready to go, John?"

"W-what time is it?" he asked.

"11:40," answered Sherlock.

"Past you bedtime?" Jane joked.

Sherlock looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. "Ah, I believe _this_ belongs to you." He held at the press pass he used earlier.

"How did you…"

"Must've dropped it," said John quickly.

"Oh, well thank you," she said, taking it in her hand.

"By the way, _nobody _wants to read about refurnishing in the library…"

"How did you—"

"Don't ask," John cut in. "I'll text you?"

"Of course," she said, looking down at the ground.

Then John was being yanked toward the door. They stepped out into the dark night and headed toward the bus stop, the smell of peach-flavored tobacco heavy between them.

"That skater I was conversing with said that Derrick lived on the other side of the park, where the trailer homes are located. The news broadcast featured 4 sisters and a dad. No mom. Single parent, multiple siblings, a boy working his ass off for a scholarship? He clearly had money troubles, which tells us that he couldn't afford a car. So Derrick walks past the park quite often then."

"Wow. So we visit the park tomorrow?"

"Yes. Do you remember the girl in the grey? She was checking the time far too often."

"And?"

"_And _she didn't have a purse—no place to keep her keys. She had a deadline, no car, so she must have needed to walk home…"

"Across the park?"

"Good, John. And I got her talking about her three neighbors who also go to San Dimas. She had kind words to say about all of them… except one. And then her eyes went to her wrist. What does that tell us?"

They were boarding the bus now. "Um… that she was hiding something?"

"Right. She was hiding grab marks, based on her multiple sweatbands. Violent neighbor sounds rather suspicious, eh?"

"You're brilliant," said John. He hadn't realized until he sat down how utterly tired he was.

"Did _you_ get anything?"

"A hot girl's phone number," John replied.

Sherlock scoffed.

John followed his friend off the bus, down a road, and into a gated community. "You live _here?_" gaped John.

He nodded, and a moment later, they were trotting into what John could only call a giant mansion. The ceiling loomed overhead, decked with chandeliers, and paintings lined the sea-green walls.

"Why the Hell do we always go to my place when you live _here_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I quite like your house. Much homier. This way."

"Just when I thought you couldn't be more interesting…" Sherlock's room was predictably Sherlock—a thousand books, a large desk, and an endless number of lab experiments cluttered about.

"We'll sleep here. Do you need to eat?" he asked.

John nodded.

"The kitchens down the hall. Help yourself to quite literally anything you desire. I'll be in the shower. I, regretfully, have to wash the smell of smoke off of me before we come across my brother. He might be suspicious if his baby brother's suddenly scented like a Lebanese belly dancer."

John chuckled and wandered out the room. He could easily have gotten lost in the gigantic household. But he found the kitchen soon enough.

There was a long-limbed, clean-cut young man sitting at the table, clad in pajamas. He had a plate of something delicious looking. "Hello John. Lemon merman pie?"

"I… okay, thanks," he said.

The young man placed a slice on a plate with careful, swift hands. "Milk?"

"Yes, please."

He placed the milk and pie at the table and held out a hand. "Mycroft Holmes."

"John Watson."

"Oh yes, I know. You're my brother's special friend."

"Special?" said John, sitting down.

"Well anybody who befriends my brother must be special. If you haven't yet guessed, he's autistic." He dabbed his mouth gingerly with a napkin. "And not only does he tolerate you, he actually desires your company at all times. Rare, rare indeed."

"I… I don't think most people give Sherlock much of a chance," said John. "He can be an arse, don't get me wrong, but he also, I don't know, makes life interesting."

"Well it does works in vice versa," said Mycroft. "Sherlock knows that caring is _not_ an advantage. But I'm afraid that my brother doesn't quite understand the inner workings of society, so I'm exceedingly glad he's found you, John. He needs someone to balance him out."

John had never realized that he was so important. "I guess you're right."

Mycroft took hold of John's cellphone which he had placed on the table and punched in his number. "I want you to keep me informed, John. Dear Mummy and Daddy aren't involved in our lives and it's my responsibility to look after Sherlock."

"Okay," said John slowly. "I'll keep in touch."

"Wonderful," said Mycroft, grinning. "Leave your plate in the sink."

…..

"John?"

"Yes, it's me."

Sherlock was wrapped in a blue robe, his hair dripping. He was already lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something. Some common factor. A.s.b. room… football player… across the park…"

John got into bed beside him. His head hit the pillow and the relaxation seemed to spread throughout his body instantly. He exhaled.

Sherlock rolled over, sniffing. "You don't want to change into something else?"

"I think I'm alri—"

"Thank God," he said. He inched closer until his head was rested on John's chest, and he inhaled deeply. "You smell _amazing_."

"Like tobacco?"

"Mm hmm."

Sherlock closed his eyes and John, becoming convinced that his friend was not moving any time soon, untensed and closed his eyes as well. "You are far too addicted, Sherlock."

"I'll die young, so what?"

"Don't joke about that," said John. A world without Sherlock just seemed colorless, like the old movies that he could barely stay awake through. "So what exactly do your parents do?"

"They play crucial roles in the British government," he answered nonchalantly. "They're not around here much."

"Oh." John tried to piece together the abnormities of Sherlock's life: a poor relationship with his parents, a desire to distant himself from his brother, and no friends at all. Was John the only person Sherlock's _ever_ cared for?

His hand drifted up to Sherlock's brown curls, and he ran his fingers through them mindlessly.

As Sherlock took deep breaths, absorbing his scent, John just stared upward. He knew that this wasn't 'normal' or how friends typically interacted. And that scared the shit out of him. But he couldn't very well ignore the comforting feeling that came from every rise and lower of Sherlock's chest.

And Hell, since when was anything in relation to Sherlock Holmes 'normal' to begin with?

"John?"

"Yes?"

"You're father's job… is it more permanent than the ones he's held in the past? Location wise?"

"I think since it's an office job I'm set to stay here until I graduate."

"Oh good," said Sherlock, nuzzling him a little. "And once we're out of here, we'll rent a flat in the city."

"You already have my life figured out?" John mocked.

"Our life, John. Who else would stomach me as a flatmate?"

John laughed, making Sherlock rock. "That's a very good question. An insane person, I suspect."

"Keep doing that," Sherlock ordered.

"Huh?"

"Playing with my hair," he said.

John gulped but did as he was told. What would his classmates say were they to witness this?

Sherlock sprang up so fast that John nearly shouted in surprised. "The bracelet!"

"What?"

"Oh I knew there was something familiar! On the counter in the A.S.B room there was a red and blue thread bracelet with one heart-shaped bead, which was the exact same bracelet that the girl in grey from the party was wearing!"

"Helpful clue?" asked John.

"Very," said Sherlock, smiling wickedly. He then lie back down, nestling his head into John's neck. "We'll investigate tomorrow, John." Sherlock's breath was hot against his skin.

"o-okay," muttered John.

Entangled in each other, the two boys fell fast asleep.

**Yay! Giving you guys a quick update since I'm leaving town soon and couldn't wait to write this chapter! Hope you guys enjoy! Please, please review : ) Inspire me! lol**


	10. Chapter 10

John woke with a start. Sherlock, who was wide awake and lying horizontally on the bed (with his head rested on John's stomach and the newspaper outstretched before him) said, "You sure are good at sleeping."

"Well," said John, rubbing his eyes, "We all have our talents."

"And what are mine?" asked Sherlock. And John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock grinning.

"You know very well what your talents are! Being an insufferable git seems to be your particular favorite though."

Sherlock laughed and set his paper down on the bed. For a while it remained like that, the weight of Sherlock's head heavy on John's stomach and the smell of pancakes lingering from somewhere in the house.

"While you wasted time sleeping, I did some research via Facebook and found out that the girl in grey's name is Elena Salvada and her ex- boyfriend, who she broke up with four days before the murder, is named Burt Johnson."

"I didn't know you have a Facebook," said John.

"I don't. I used yours. By the way, that Jane girl sent you a friend request which I took the liberty of declining."

"What?!" barked John, sitting up.

Sherlock rolled off of him, crumbling his paper. "Oh please, John. She had a huge book in her bag with the bookmark right beneath the front cover, which means she's the type of girl who just tries to appear intelligent by needlessly trotting around with giant hunks of literature!"

"Or maybe she hadn't had the chance to start the bloody book!" said John.

"Well you can always add her later and send flirty I.M.s until the end of time," said Sherlock dismissively. "But as for now, Darcy is making breakfast."

"Who's Darcy?"

"The cook," answered Sherlock.

"Should have guessed that."

The pancakes were enough to make every moment of enduring Sherlock's arrogance or his classmates insults worth it—simply amazing. John hadn't really had too many decent meals since his mother died, and today, he had several plates.

Sherlock (who was actually eating for once) simply looked at his friend with a close-lipped smile. "You really like pancakes."

"Lovely deduction," John replied. "So what are you doing for the holidays?"

"Avoiding Christmas carols with a passion," he said, and they both laughed. "You?"

"Um usual family stuff, you know."

"I don't know," Sherlock clarified. "My family isn't the celebrating type. I mean, Mycroft gets me presents each year, but for as long as I could remember they've been things like school textbooks or electric toothbrushes. Does that count?"

"No," said John, scooping the remains of the maple syrup into his mouth. "Doesn't count one bit."

Sherlock shrugged. "Are you finished? We have some interviews to conduct."

"Yupp," said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've got… oh, let me." He grabbed a napkin, reached his hand forward, and dabbed with surprising gentility on the corner of John's mouth.

John's ears went hot. "I, uh, thank you."

…..

They walked from the high school to the trailer park. The heat was aggravating, sending drops of moister down the back of John's neck, as they traced the streets repeatedly in search of clues.

Sherlock muttered to himself, his eyes darting back and forth like some overexcited puppy. He didn't seem to notice John at all until about their fourth lap around the fountain, when Sherlock suddenly clasped his slender fingers around John's swaying hand.

"What are you—"

"See that guy over there? Don't look long," he whispered close to John's ear.

John glanced over. A kid who couldn't be older than a sophomore was watching them from across the park. He wore a striped shirt and held a curious air of self-importance.

"He's been watching us. I suspect he's wondering why we've been circling the park for an hour. So I'm holding your hand. A couple strolling through on a sunny afternoon might throw off his suspicion."

John couldn't keep himself from blushing.

"We're across town, John. Nobody you know will see you."

"I know," he replied. Their hands swayed together, awkwardly at first until they feel into a gently rhythm. "So we're just going to walk around here all day?"  
"Of course not, John. As usual you saw but failed to interpret the obvious. Elena Salvada is our next move."

"The girl in grey?"  
"Indeed."

"Why? Because she broke up with her possibly violent boyfriend? That's hardly anything to go off of."

"You didn't see her, John. You didn't see the anxiety in her eyes or the nervous habit of twisting her hair. There's something to this boyfriend of hers, something we don't know, something to be feared. Plus he lives near the victim, and the bracelet, _oh_ it it's all _so_ obvious. I'll have Elena in your house this afternoon."

"What? How?"

Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, taping on the pole of a telephone wire with his index finger. "You can read ancient sonnets but not babysitting flyers?"

He moved his hand aside, and John saw an ad for Savada's babysitting services along with many others of its kind. Her phone number was printed on tabs across the bottom, which Sherlock swiftly took. He also ripped the tabs of a few others and slipped them into a separate pocket. "Wouldn't want to draw suspicion from our spectator," he whispered.

John chanced another quick look. The boy was just _watching_ them, with no intention of hiding a thing. "Maybe he's just a homophobe and we're feeding his discomfort by the fact that you're holding my hand."

When John's attention returned to his friend, Sherlock's hand had risen up to caress his cheek. His fingers played nimbly with the tips of his hair and the curves of his skin. "People really ought to stop speculating about us eventually." With that, Sherlock leaned down to press his lips to John's forehead.

John's body went rigid. "Well, they won't if you bloody do things like that!"

"It worked though, didn't it? Don't turn now but I think I've scared the little bliter off."

True enough, the striped-shirt boy had disappeared, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the park with a warmth no longer caused by the sun.

**Hello lovelies! Have I mentioned that I have a tumblr? **_**Thatgirlcarissa**_**. Check it out. Odds are I'll follow you in return.**


	11. Chapter 11

"Dad?"

He looked up from his computer. His father's eyes (which might as well have been a wrinkled reflection of John's) peered up at him. "Yeah?"

"Listen, I know I'm supposed to babysit Harry tonight, but Sherlock has these two concert tickets and…"

"John," he began. "You know you have a responsibility to your family while I'm at work."

"I know, I _know._ But this is our favorite band, Dad, and Sherlock surprised me with the tickets. But I can hire a babysitter and I swear we'll pay for every penny. It'll only be a little while, I swear. Three hours tops."

Mr. Watson eyed him for a long while. Finally, he said. "Alright, but only this once."

John exhaled, relieved beyond words. "Thank you," he managed. "Also, is it okay if Sherlock crashes here after?"

His father's eyebrows rose a bit. "Another overnighter, John? Don't you two, I don't know, get a little tired of one another?"

"Not really," John answered, shrugging despite his slight confusion.

"You've been spending an awful lot of time together since we've moved here. Just him. You use to make lots of friends, John, and lots of them were pretty girls too. What ever happened to that?"

John stood there, still as a statue in the doorway. It was true that he usually made friends quite easily, but that always varied depending on the school he'd transferred to and the amount of interest he was able to generate there. But hadn't they _always_ been short-lived friendships? Hadn't they all revolved around baseball teams or silly teen movies? None of his "buds" had bothered to keep in touch once it came time to pack-up again, he knew. None of those "pretty girls" had held any special place in his heart either.

But Sherlock, of all people, proved to be the exception, hadn't he? He'd promise John that their friendship wouldn't fizzle into nothingness; he'd even planned out a common future.

But he couldn't tell his Dad that, that this boy he'd barely known for a few months had quickly become his closet companion, that they were each other's exceptions. So instead he just stood there, tugging awkwardly on the sleeves of his jumper. "He's my best friend, Dad."

"I had best friends growing up too. That doesn't mean we spent every goddam minute together."

"Do you dislike Sherlock?"

Mr. Watson exhaled and looked down at his computer screen for a long moment before meeting John's eyes again, the apprehension in both their gaze mirrored by one another.

"I just think he seems a little possessive over you and you don't seem to mind."

"So?"

"So it's not right," he said, his voice finally betraying him and raising in frustration. "It's not right for two boys to _only _want to see one another all the time."

"Dad!" said John, finally understanding. "I'm _not_ gay!"

"Now, I did not say that."

"You might as well have," replied John. He had begun pacing the room with his palms pressed against his temples. "Sherlock's my friend and we just want to see a concert, okay?"

"Okay," he said. "Okay, be safe."

John nodded and walked numbly out the room.

…..

She arrived promptly at nine thirty. She wasn't wearing gray this time, only a blue San Dimas Varsity Volleyball sweatshirt. It hid her figure, which didn't matter, because John found most of her beauty to be in her round, dark eyes.

_See Dad_, he thought_, I still notice girls._

He looked over at Sherlock. Now that his mind was on the subject, Sherlock's eyes couldn't be more opposite. The crystal blue surface looked like the clear water of a swimming pool that had been lit at night with a greenish glow. _Not like I care,_ he added as an afterthought. Then he pried his attention away.

"Elena? Nice to meet you," said Sherlock, smiling. It was so believable; Sherlock could have a very successful career as an actor. "Wait a… Don't I know you?"

She eyed him. "I think we met at a party," she said almost instantly. Figures no one could forget Sherlock.

"Ah, yes! A few days ago!"

"Small world," said John.

"How are you? How are things at your school?" asked Sherlock, crossing his arms and leaning back against the doorway.

Her face dropped just slightly. "I'm okay but the school is crazy. Everyone's always cautious of each other. For good reason though, right? I mean, _somebody _had to do it."

"Man," said Sherlock, "Sounds horrible. Any suspicions in particular?"

Her gaze fell to the floor, her blonde hair hiding her eyes. "No clue," she said.

Sherlock nodded. "Well, I sure hope everything works out—"

Sherlock was midsentence when a small figure interrupted him. "She's _here_? Why didn't you tell me she's _here_, Jawn?"

She ran to Elena, smiled up at her. "My name is Harry."

"Hello there, Harry," she replied.

"Do you like Disney movies?" she asked. Soon later, Elena was being beckoned toward Harry's movie collection and Sherlock and John were heading out the door.

The night was warm, buzzing. For a moment, John imagined that he and Sherlock actually were normal teenagers, they were really heading out to an awesome concert, hoping maybe to get some girls' numbers or sneak backstage. But no. They would never be classified as _normal, s_o instead John turned to Sherlock. "What now?"

Sherlock grinned. He pulled a pink, zebra print wallet from his back pocket. "How inconvenient that Elena left her wallet at your place. Guess we'll just have to pay her a visit to drop it off tomorrow."

"You really need to stop stealing," said John, but he was laughing regardless. "So you think her ex-boyfriend did it? That's why they broke up and her face totally fell when you asked about suspects?"

"Absolutely. The bottom of her jeans had mud stains because she took the long route here, through the hiking trail. She's avoiding his house, avoiding him."

"Brilliant," John said.

Sherlock beamed. "But now we have two hours to kill."

"No mysteries to solve?"

"No, unfortunately. I'm bored already." He exhaled. "Well we're doing _this_ because I like to do. I guess it's your turn. What is it that average minds like yours enjoy?"

John squinted. "Careful, you got close to actually being not-an-asshole for a moment. We can go back to your house?"

"I hate my house."

"Okay…" he looked around at the dimly lit streets. "The batting cages are still open."

…..

John snuck back into his room, grabbed his favorite baseball bat and a helmet. He handed them noiselessly out the window. When he took one glance at Sherlock, clad in his button-up purple shirt with the cuffs, he realized that that would never do. He tossed him an old P.E. Shirt.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"It's so your buttons don't burst," John replied. He meant it as an analogy, but mostly all metaphorical concepts go over Sherlock's head. He just stared with a pout.

John ignored him and eased out the room. As they headed back toward the front yard, they passed by the window of Harry's room. Sherlock raised one slender finger up to his lips and gestured that they peek inside.

Harry, in her purple pj's and unmatching socks, was pushing a DVD into the DVD player. Elena was sitting on a beanbag, her eyes on Harry but her thoughts undoubtedly elsewhere. Her lips were curled in, and her filed fingernails tapped aimlessly against her knee in a quick and random pattern.

Sherlock nodded and darted to the front.

The batting cages were entirely clear, considering the season had come to an end and the sun had already set. John began the machine, chancing a look over at Sherlock. He was unbuttoning each little, black button of his slick purple shirt—pale chest exposed between curtains of deep violet.

"I—uh, have you ever done this before?" asked John.

"You mean hit a baseball? Yes, a few times in rather unpleasant P.E. classes."

"I meant use a batting cage," John confirmed.

"Oh," he dropped his shirt to the cement, pulled John's T-shirt over his head. With his arms outstretched, John could see the faint trail of hair traveling down toward his waistband. Then all was covered by grey fabric. "Hmm, this actually fits. But no, I've never occupied time in here before. Why don't you go first?"

John shrugged. He slipped on his helmet and gripped the worn end of his bat. He was extremely conscious of Sherlock's gaze, knowing he'd analyze and imitate each little quirk.

The first ball came shooting out of the machine. John bit his lip, swung. He made contact with a soft _click_ and the ball went soaring toward the other side of the cage.

"Very impre—" Sherlock began, and John caught him stepping forward out of the corner of his eye.

"Stay there!" He barked. The next ball came whizzing forward, narrowly missing Sherlock. John tapped it only barely do to the distraction. "You idiot," he laughed.

Sherlock stepped back, observed.

John made a series of impressive hits and a couple stinkers. When his time was up, he removed his helmet and shook the tenseness from his arms and shoulders. "You ready?"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

John sat back against the fence to watch. Sherlock mimicked his stance relatively well, though his rear stuck out just a bit beyond regulation. The helmet smashed his curls against his forehead and he stared forward, his grip tense.

It was so utterly un-Sherlock that John could barely suppress a giggle.

Then the ball launched out. He swung what might have been a decent swing if it hadn't been ridiculously late. His face looked insulted, but not for long. The next ball came. Another swing, another miss. And so it went in.

"John," he said, dropping the bat at the end of his round. "This thing is broken."

"What?" John said, finally allowing himself a fit of laughter.

"It is! It's accelerating! It was much slower for you!"

More laughing. "It _feels_ quicker than it looks. You just don't have any experience. Here, try again."

The second round looked a lot like the first except, on the very last ball, Sherlock managed to make contact. It echoed through the cage and hit the net with relative power behind it.

Sherlock removed his helmet with a satisfied smirk. "There. I've mastered it. Can we quit this now?"

John pulled himself up and rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say."

They had another forty minutes to go, so Sherlock and John settled on a bench in the park. It was night and the dragonflies played tag beneath the beam of the streetlights. Sherlock was visibly tired—his eyes drowsy and his limbs slumped. He so rarely looked like that, so strained.

Eventually, his head found its way onto John's shoulder. John stared outward, wondering what his dad would think.

Silently, Sherlock's hand crept up the John's leg and his fingers started tapping rhythmically against his knee.

Suddenly it was all too much—the nuzzling, the poem, and the ways his eyes lingered on Sherlock's bare chest. It was _enough_ because it was all _wrong_, not because John was some homophobe bigot, but because it was simple_ not him_. Not the John Watson he'd been for 17 years of life.

Rather roughly, he shrugged Sherlock off. "Must you always lay all over me?"

Sherlock backed away, and John detected a small crease appear between his brows. "I didn't realize it was bothersome."

"It's just… I don't know, and the tapping? It gets on my nerves." He stared across the park awkwardly.

"The tapping served a purpose, if you'd only notice," he said. He made the tapping pattern again, this time against his own leg. "They're piano keys. Elena was practicing her piano keys when we looked in on her through the window. A G…"

"Since when do you play the piano?"

"Since age nine. Then I gave it up because it was far too simple and began with the violin instead." John watched as Sherlock typed into his phone. "Hmm."

"What? What is it?"

"The song she was practicing," said Sherlock. "It was Hush Little Baby."


	12. Chapter 12

"God, I can't believe you've walked all the way here," said Elena. "It's like negative degrees out."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well we figured you'd want your wallet back. Thanks again for allowing us in to warm up."

She smiled weakly. "No problem."

John glanced around the room as the small talk proceeded. Although, he wasn't quite sure why he even bothered with looking for clues. He was bloody horrible at it. For a second, he glanced at Sherlock and tried to imagine what he was deducing.

Was Sherlock concluding that Elena's mother was an alcoholic based on the dust patterns on her desk? Or that she left to volunteer as a youth group leader on Thursdays because of the colored paper in her recycling bin? John could only guess.

John watched absently as Sherlock pretended to care about some television program, when he began to wonder how much Sherlock possibly knew about him. He must deduce quite a bit. They were together all the time, after all. John's stomach began to make some agonized turns as he tried to imagine all the secrets he was incapable of hiding.

"Bad luck, eh?" Sherlock was saying. John turned his gaze to the mirror. It was scathed with several long cracks.

"Oh yeah," she said. "Guess so." The phone rang down the hall, and Elena disappeared from the room.

In the seconds that followed, Sherlock was searching through every drawer and shelf. He opened books, glanced through purses, and eventually ended up turning a small, metal ring in his hands.

"Curious. She has all of her jewelry filed away neatly and this little bugger is out of place."

"Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns brass," John sung beneath his breath, "Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass…"

Both their eyes shifted toward the broken mirror. "And if that looking glass gets broke…"

"John!" said Sherlock. "You're brilliant!"

John's face flushed pink. "I'm surprised you didn't catch that first."

Sherlock shrugged. "No one ever sang that song to me."

The door creaked open, and Sherlock's hand slipped furtively into his back pocket.

"My mom's on her way home. You two should get going so that she doesn't get the wrong idea."

"Right," said John, following her slender frame out toward the door.

On the porch, a small, neatly packaged box was placed on the welcome doormat. "Looks like you've got mail," said John. He reached down to hand it to her.

Sherlock pulled a pocketknife out of seemingly nowhere. "Need some assistance with that?" he offered. She allowed him to gracefully slice the taped center.

Before John saw a thing, Elena was screaming, stepping back. Her voice was shrill and her eyes watered as the box fell to the ground.

When John saw what it was, he realized her terror wasn't without cause. Inside the box, lined with velvet ribbon, was the stiffened body of a small, dead bird. A mocking bird.

….

"You can tell us, you know. You can tell us everything and we'll do our best to…"

"I can't Sherlock. I c-can't, alright?"

"You can trust-"

"Trust you two strangers? No. No just leave, both of you. Please."

"You want to know why we've acquainted ourselves with you? You're nervous, terrified, threatened. Question is, why? You keep your wrist covered which suggests that your boyfriend turned violent. Grab marks. But you couldn't leave him, no. You just wanted to make him regret ever touching you. So you found someone new, someone from a different school. And then said person shows up dead? And you think it's all your fault. So you cover for your boyfriend, don't you? You cover for him after the _murder_."

"What? Wha—you're… you don't know anything!"

"Sher—"

"That's why you still wear that bracelet. You don't know though, do you? That his fell off when he was stuffing the body in the costume in the ASB room. And now your precious boyfriend is threatening you to stay quiet."

"Get out! Both of you! Get the fuck out!"

"Sherlock, we should go. Really."

**Okay, here you go guys : ) Hope you enjoy. Please review? It really, really motivates me. **


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock twirled the ring between his fingers, eyeing it as though he expected it to grow wings and fly away. "Brass ring. Slight rusting. By the looks of it, very aged. Worn repeated at some point based on the discoloring, but not in the past couple years I would assume, so either this is an old family ring or…"

"Or the killer bought it at the old antique shop in down town San Dimas?" John guessed.

Sherlock looked up at him and the corner of his mouth twisted into a small smile. "Good, John."

So they turned down the street and headed downtown in the cold. Sherlock pulled his collar up and caught site of John watching him. "Are you shivering, John? You want my coat?"

"What? No!" he replied, blushing. "No I'm alright."

"You sure? Maybe you should wear a tad more than those God-awful jumpers. Oh, here we are."

They turned into the antique store. The place was littered with plates, paintings, and old dolls. The thick air and darkened light reminded John of haunted mansions and ghost stories. He followed Sherlock to the front.

"Pardon me," said Sherlock. An old lady behind the counter turned to face him. She offered a wrinkled smile.

"Wow, when'd you youngsters gain so much interest in this old place?" she said. She laughed, and it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that she had had tuna for lunch. She reeked.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "How so?"

"You're the second one today," she said. Then she paused to cough viciously into a handkerchief.

"Really?" said Sherlock. "Might have been one of our friends. What'd he look like?"

"Little thing," she said. "Dark hair. Wild eyes."

"Did he buy _this_?" With a clatter, the ring hit the counter and the subtlety vanished from Sherlock's tone.

"What? Oh, that's right. How did you—"

"Listen, someone gave this ring to my girlfriend. She refuses to tell me who but I—I love her and I just have to know," he said. It was so convincing that even John was tempted to believe it.

"Oh, oh my," she said. "I wouldn't want to interfere."

Sherlock's eyes began to water, and John had to fight to keep the shock off his face.

"Listen… I won't hurt anyone. But this is _killing_ me and I just have to know."

John could see past the fake pain, and for a moment, he wondered if Sherlock would ever truly feel pain about something as trivial as romance.

"Okay," the old women said after a moment. In a cloud of dust, she dug through some files. "Here's who the check was written from. Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you?"

….

"So you were wrong."

"No, I was not."

"Moriarty isn't the ex-boyfriend," said John. "You. Were. Wrong."

"Fine I was wrong!" he snapped. "Won't happen again."

"So where are we going now, exactly?" He asked.

"We're going to the house of that girl you've been texting in the hopes of acquiring a yearbook so that we may discover who the Hell this Moriarty is."

John hated the idea, but curiosity was burning inside him and he wasn't about to delay the case. Anyway, Jane was thrilled to see him. "What's up?" she said.

John began to explain before Sherlock had the chance to make up some lie.  
"Oh my God," said Jane.

"I know," said John. "We're not… normal."

She smiled at him and opened the door wider. "I think it's awesome. C'mon. The yearbooks are in my room."

Sherlock went straight to the bookshelf and was flipping through the yearbook in a matter of seconds. John stood beside Jane, answering all her excited questions and quarries.

"Oh would you shut up?" Sherlock said to Jane. Her jaw dropped. "See here, John."

John shot Jane an apologetic glance and went to Sherlock's side. There he was, a grinning brunette boy in the freshman section.

"Please John, tell me you remember," he said.

"Um…"

"When I kissed you in the park!" he said.

"What?" asked Jane.

"and there was a kid there watching us! In the stripes! For god's sake John, use your mind! It's elementary!"

"I remember," said John. "but why?"

"Oh this is good, John. Don't you see? Jim Moriarty. He used Burt Johnson to commit the crime, threatened him with the bracelet as a reminder that if he didn't obey he'd go after his precious girlfriend. So they break up for her safety. And Elena, out of distress, cuts her own wrists and hides the scars. But she's a smart girl, straight A's and captain of the debate club, did you notice? And she puts two and two together. So Jim here starts to threaten her to keep her mouth shut. Oh, we were close. But we've got it now."

John is silent. "Wow… what now?"

Sherlock shrugs. "We tell the police and they'll do all the boring arresting stuff. Let's go, John."

He nearly pranced out of the room. John looked over at Jane, who still appeared a mixture of thrilled and confused. "Thanks for everything," he said awkwardly.

"One more question," she mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"All this talking to me… it was always for the case? You're actually with—with him?"

"No!" John replied instantly. "Sherlock and I are friends and we didn't really kiss, not on the lips at lease. That sounds wrong, ugh, I just meant—I'm not… I'm not gay."

"Oh," she said. She didn't sound too convinced.

"I—"

"Jawwwnnn," called a voice from down the hall. John exhaled.

"I have to go. I'll text you, okay?"

"You can stay. Hang out for a while. You just said that your case was finished."

"I'd really like that but—"

"John, for god's sake, leave the stupid girl. You can see breasts on the internet later. C'mon."

"_Sherlock,_" he growled. "I'll text you soon, Jane."

John was half way down the hall when he heard her. "Don't bother…" and the door slammed closed.

**ARTISTS PLEASE READ! **

**Hey so I was thinking, if anyone reading this fic is artistic and wants to make some fanart for it, I would be soooo thrilled. My fav would be cover photo and everything else will be featured on my tumblr. In reviews, let me know if you're interested and I will message you my email. **** much love.**


	14. Chapter 14

"You git," John muttered. "It's not enough that every girl at our school thinks I'm a poof, but now every girl at San Dimas as well? Are you out to ruin my chances of ever getting laid?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened the door. John hadn't stopped complaining since they left the authorities (who had been quite dumb founded as Sherlock explained their entire case) and now they were outside of the Holmes manor.

"Come off it," said Sherlock as he swung the door open. "Do you need to eat?"

John let out a long breath. "Fine. Yes, I'm starving."

They reached the kitchen where Sherlock instructed the chief to make his specialty, assuring John he would like it.

They settled at the table where, low and behold, Sherlock actually ate. The specialty turned out to be some sort of gumbo which had John's mouth watering before he'd even taken a bite.

"So that's it then? The case is all over with?"

"Boring now, isn't it?" Sherlock replied bitterly. "Hopefully another murder will surface soon."

For first time since his bout with Jane, John couldn't help but smile. "You sound completely mad, you know that?"

Sherlock smiled deviously. "Oh don't pretend you don't appreciate it."

John nudged his arm with his elbow, causing a spoonful of gumbo to spill onto Sherlock's chin. "You prick!"

John laughed aloud, and Sherlock couldn't keep from joining in as he wiped his face with his napkin.

There was the sharp sound of shoes on hardwood. Both boys stopped laughing as Mycroft entered the room.

"Well little brother, I didn't realize your better half was over," he said.

John's ears went hot.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied, waving his hand. "_I _am most certainly the better half."

Mycroft was pouring himself wine. "Mum and Dad left to Peru. They'll be gone for a month."

"So _you'll_ be around for the month, I take it?" Sherlock scoffed. "Shame. Anyhow, can John stay the night?"

"Tomorrow's Monday," John muttered.

"John's always welcomed," said Mycroft, smiling in his direction. In that moment, John could tell that Mycroft Holmes really did consider John to be his brother's better half.

Mycroft turned on his heels. "Leave the wine out," ordered Sherlock.

"Just this once," he said, and the door closed behind him.

The mischief reentered Sherlock's eyes. "I already texted your father. He thinks we're swamped with a school project so you're staying over."

John wasn't sure whether his father would believe such a story, but he didn't quite care. Something about just hanging out with Sherlock, like the night at the batting cages, seemed strangely appealing. And while John was never the type to drink or party, a warm feeling spread through his stomach at the thought of getting buzzed here tonight, safe and with a friend.

Sherlock poured them each a tall glass. "Cheers to a case well solve," John said, and they clicked cups.

The alcohol burnt his throat with each sip. They settled beside the fire in the living room, reflections of the flames dancing across the wine bottle's surface. They chatted absently as the liquid began to disappear and their words began to slur. But Sherlock, being himself, soon fell into a long silence.

"You can do better you know," he said after a long while. "She was nothing special, that girl."

"She didn't need to be _special_. She was cute and friendly and, for one bloody second, she preferred me and not you. That's the thing, Sherlock, no one is special compared to you." The words came out in a quick stream, and John could sense that the alcohol was already taking effect.

"Do you remember the first argument we had? When I took those cigarettes and said it was your own fault for thinking you were special?"

John peered over. Sherlock was watching the fire which caused strange shadows to play across his sharp features.

"Yeah," said John. He reached the end of his glass and poured some more.

"I was wrong," he said. "You are special."

"You know, I think I deserve some bloody special award," said John. He was laughing now though he wasn't sure why. "An award for putting up with you this long."

"You do."

"You're a nutter."

"I am."

"You're an arse."

"That's true."

"But you're brilliant, and you're the best friend I've ever had."

"…"

"…"

John barely had time to set down his glass. One moment he's sipping wine, the next he's being pulled to the ground. "What are you…" but his head fit perfectly in the crook of Sherlock's neck, and his body pressed atop his with perfect balance. Sherlock's arm wrapped around him, lanky yet strong and snug, and his long, violinist fingers ran along the exposed skin of his neck. John exhaled.

"_Lay Your Sleeping head, my love, human on my faithless arm,"_ Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"That poem we read in the start of the year? I think I understand it now."

John wasn't too sure of what he was doing exactly, but his face was pressed against the smooth skin of his best friend's neck. He wasn't aware of much, just the deep, unsettling feeling of change and the warmth of skin against his lips as he whispered "Sherlock…" and fell fast asleep.

_**Johnlock, ladies and gentlemen! Please, please review!**_


	15. Chapter 15

John was swimming, no, floating. The breeze was warm and the gentle motion of the water rocked him up and down. John was alone—no, he was with Sherlock. But there really wasn't much of a difference, was there? Sherlock was a constant. He was always with John. They were never alone.

There was a wave. A large wave. But it wasn't a wave, was it? It was birds, a flock of birds. No, no, _no._ They weren't birds; how could John have been so dumb? They were people, faces. Birdy, beady eyes on birdy, beady faces watching them float. Watching, always watching.

With a sharp intake of breath, John was awake. All dreams were forgotten. He became painfully aware of the fact that he was draped over Sherlock, drenched in firelight. He rolled off him instantly, sat up, stared around the room.

Darkness, nothing more.

His head throbbed. Sherlock, the bastard, was lying there more like a dreaming child than like a hung over teen—his lips barely parted, his skin glowing. John cursed aloud.

His back ached. He wanted his bed. Instead, John settled for the best substitute he could find at the moment and headed toward the couch. John moved aside a pillow and found a notebook underneath it. The notebook belonging to none other than Sherlock Holmes.

John's head was flooded with a thousand images of Sherlock slumped over the worn, little book, scribbling notes and observations. Carefully, John squinted through the spotted darkness to read its pages.

….

Remember:

- Carlson Murder at City Hall. September 3rd, 2:30. Bitten fingernails. Eleven thirteen freckles.

-Lab project due Wednesday. John will forget his half as a result of stress from English essay. Do both parts.

-Print one of Mycroft's old English essays

-Carlson's dog walker at the diner. 1:45. Two small dogs, possibly shiatsus.

-Bloody stupid sonnet due Monday.

-Carlson case: solved

-Bloody stupid sonnet due tomorrow

-Attend John's baseball match this afternoon

-Research rules of baseball

-Sonnet. Dammit. NOW.

….

Ode to John

It happens quite unoften

In fact, it's rather rare

For someone to stand before me,

And have me notice that they're there.

Surely I am made of Tin.

I'm made of ice. I'm made of stone.

I'm telling you, John Watson

I am meant to be alone.

See concepts such as friendship

Were foreign and were strange

Which suites me quite fine, actually

Since half this school thinks I'm deranged.

But you told me I was brilliant

The first time that we met

And though of course _I know I am_

From then on my mind was set—

There was something different, I deduced

About this new kid at the school.

He doesn't make me roll my eyes

Or scoff or curse or say things that are cruel.

In fact, you're sort of smart

In ways I never am

Like what is good and what is bad

And what constitutes a man.

You plant flowers for you sister

To make her feel at home.

You compliment sheer strangers.

And you're charitably-prone.

I've never cared much for the living.

I've found more comfort in the dead

Maybe it's because I've been a corpse

Not human, but a ghost instead.

You see, you are the most human… human being

That I've ever known

Perhaps you've taught me how to be one too?

Because I'm not a ghost. I'm not a stone.

I'm not a corpse, and I'm not tin.

This much I know is true—

John Watson, I've been getting better

Since I've been in love with you.

…

"What are you doing?" His voice was quick, alert—not the drowsy voice of a person waking up from sleep.

"I thought you never wrote this," John managed. "You told me that you never wrote this! You turned in some crap about a Sonnet to Science instead; I _saw_ you!"

"I-I did. This one clearly lacks key literary component and my rhythm is decent at best. It's sap, John, nothing more. I wrote it for the grade…"

Sherlock edged forward. John stepped back, the couch hitting the back of his legs.

"All this time? You've felt this way all this time, and you never told me?"  
"I don't _feel_ anything," Sherlock spat. He had taken to pacing the room, hands on his temples. "Why the hell are you going through my stuff anyway?"

"Coming from you!" John shrieked, sounding too loud for the quiet room. "Have you ever thought that maybe I don't want this? I don't want to be John-Watson-Sherlock-Holmes'-bloody-sidekick!"  
"You're not my _sidekick_," Sherlock replied, eyes on the floor.

"What am I then, Sherlock? Your bloody servant? Your…" but the word _boyfriend_ just couldn't come out.

"You're my friend…" Sherlock managed beneath his breath.

John's chest was heaving now, his pulse rising as though he'd been running for hours. "Maybe you were right about what you said before," said John. "Maybe you shouldn't have friends."

John was leaving. He wasn't sure what time it was, whether any buses would be at the stop. But he needed to get out, get way. Not float, but swim. The air outside was cool and crisp. He focused on elements like that—the weather, the air, the slick sound of his sneakers on the pavement, anything to force the image of Sherlock's face from resurfacing in his mind.

He was John Watson: Nobody's sidekick. Nobody's servant. And nobody's bloody _boyfriend_.


	16. Chapter 16

PART 2

Sherlock unplugged the bunsen burner and cleaned some test tubes at the end of his experiment. Usually that would be Molly, his new lab partner's, job. Today she was at home stick. But Sherlock preferred the solitude. He hated the way she nipped at her pencil's easers, offered to help far too often, and attempted conversation while he worked—always prying at the same loathsome subject.

John was across the room. Alice (who John had traded partners with Molly for) was scribbling some notes down as John stirred chemicals. Sherlock stared greedily, absorbing everything that he could within the few hours of the day he got to see John.

His wrist is bothering him from baseball again, Sherlock figured, which is why he's stirring with his left hand. He's been busy with school work and has neglected his laundry, forcing himself to wear the same jeans twice in a row. His sister has made him another bead bracelet. He's tired and wishes that Alice would do more of the work. He's too nice to say anything.

John's eyes drifted toward the doorway. Then there was a clatter as he dropped his stirring rod, nearly spilling his chemical mixture. Sherlock followed John's gaze and saw it too.

_ Well groomed. Short, but with the air of confidence of a man twice his size. A new binder with few contents. Wet grass stuck to his converse shoes; recently outdoors. A striped shirt._

"Sorry I'm late. You know the classroom numbering system here is bloody horrible?"

The attention of the class followed the boy as he walked to the teacher's desk.

The teacher (whose name Sherlock had yet to remember) looked at the boy through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "Ah… transfer student, Jim Moriarty?"

The boy smirked. "Yes sir."

Sherlock stole glances at John, whose jaw was nearly on the floor.

"Well we already have our lab partners for the year. Why don't you work over there with Sherlock Holmes for today," he said, sounding bored.

Jim nodded and strode away.

"Morning," he said.

Sherlock looked up at the boy. "I've already finished this lab. You can put your name on it if you wish. I suggest you find something to do for the next 43 minutes because I certainly will not be your source of entertainment."

Jim raised his hands and eyebrows. "Got it."

Sherlock turned back to his book.

"So it's right then, what they say about you?" said Jim.

Sherlock looked up at him bemusedly. "And what exactly do they say?"  
The boy shrugged. "That you're an outcast. Mad brilliant, but unable to hold a conversation. With one exception." His eyes flickered toward John. "But _that_ fell through. They say you scared him off by falling in love with him. Silly, isn't it? _Love_."

"You couldn't be more wrong," Sherlock whispered curtly.

Jim shrugged again. "Of course, I've only been here for a few hours and that's what I've picked up. People talk too much, eh?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"That's why I'm here, anyway. A nasty rumor started about me. I went from being Sophomore Class President to a feared murder suspect." He laughed a bit madly.

"Did I _ask_ for your life story?"

"Cheeky, are we? Suit yourself." Jim turned his attention to some work sheet and remained silent until the bell rang.

For the rest of the period, Sherlock fought to make deductions, but his mind wondered elsewhere. _What was John thinking?_

Surely he was confused, worried. He was wondering whether they had been wrong again.

Sherlock exhaled heavily. He had never had friends before, so why did it hurt so much that he didn't have friends now? Seclusion had never been a disadvantage.

But starring across the room, watching the way John fumbled with his scattered utensils— his eyes darting back toward Jim, the little creases appearing above his eyebrows, the back of his hair slightly ruffled, his lips just a tad bit pink from a watermelon flavored sucker… just watching caused a terrible pain to spread through Sherlock's stomach.

He _hated_ the fact that he had allowed himself to fall in love with John Watson.

But it had been so damned easy. Deductions came naturally, math came naturally, chemistry and numbers and memorization came naturally. But emotions and feelings? Those very scarcely came at all. Except in the case of John Watson. And whatever part of Sherlock wasn't busy loving John absolutely hated him for it.

The bell rang, pulling Sherlock from his long line of thoughts. Jim had had his stuffed already packed. With a quick "See you later, Sherlock Holmes" he was out the door.

Sherlock gathered his stuff as the class flooded out. He knew that John had government class, that he'd be rushing to make it across the school, but Sherlock had Health next (another class that his damned counselors had placed him in that wasn't worth his time) and decided to skip it.

He was just closing his notebook when he noticed letters writing boldly across its cover: IOU.

"Everything all right, Mr. Holmes?" asked the teacher.

"What? Ah, yes sir," he mumbled. Everyone else had left now. The teacher sat alone at his desk, a poster of the periodic table nailed behind him.

Sherlock looked back down at his notebook. The crisp, black font stared back at him. IOU.

Sherlock ignored the teacher's confusion as he walked past the desk, to the big poster, and placed his finger on box for Iodine.

"I as in Iodine. Atomic number 53."

"Questions about the elements, Sherlock?"

"Oxygen, 8… and Uranium 92. 53-8-92. IOU. But what does it _mean_?"

The teacher just looked at him, confused. Sherlock spun on his heels and disappeared from the room.

**Hi there! If you have any fanart for this, you can email me at luvsbusterboy . Thanks for reading! Please review and tell me what you think is going to happen! ;)**


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock dropped the book down on the desk and it landed with an audible _thunk_. The old librarian looked over, annoyed. She was wearing different glasses than usual and really desired to leave for lunch, Sherlock concluded after a string of observations.

He handed her his library card, and she quickly scanned it. "Looks like you've got another book do," she noted.

Sherlock arched his eyebrow. "Really?"

"The Grimm 's Fairy Tales?" She said.

"Ah…" Now he was quickly moving toward the shelves. Soon, he found another copy of the book. He sat where he was, slumped in a deserted section of the library, flipping through its pages.

The Grimm book had a distinct smell of dust seeping through its pages. It was old, falling apart at the seams. Graffiti was etched in pen at the bottom of each page: IOU.

Sherlock was muttering to himself, half expecting John to but in with questions or whispered "bloody brilliants".

"53-8-92. Page 53…" He flipped to the page which turned out to be the end of some German fairytale. He tried page 8, but found only the introduction to the book. He exhaled slowly. "53 and 8 and 92. Together they make… well, 153."

Sherlock flipped to page 153 of the old book. There, in the cryptic old writing, was the title page of a story: Faithful John.

Sherlock read through the tale several times. The story was about a king's servant, Faithful John, who goes through all sorts of dangers for the King and his forbidden love, which at some point of the story resulted in his death.

Sherlock felt his throat go dry. John had explained to him metaphors before, and though he was usually still crap at detecting them, this one was pretty clear. _His_ John was, undeniably, in danger do to his loyalty to Sherlock and Sherlock's love for solving dangerous crimes.

He left the book on the stained carpet and hurried from the library.

He wanted nothing more than to go straight to John's house. To barge through the door and check to see if John was there, in his room or with his sister, reading a book or playing a card game or anything else. He wanted to see him, to see him safe and happy. Because a terrible feeling was working its way up his body—a feeling of near paralysis.

Sherlock picked up his pace so that, by the time he reached John's door, he was drenched in a thin layer of sweat. He knocked twice curtly. Sherlock held his breath when the door swung open, but it was merely Mr. Watson who stood in the doorway.

"Evening," said Sherlock. "Is John home?"

Harry was sprinting to the door before Mr. Watson formed a word. "See, Daddy! Didn't I tell you he'd be with Sherlock!"  
"What?"

"John didn't come home from school today," said Mr. Watson in a flat voice. "We've called him and Molly and Greg but have gotten no word. After an hour I called the police…"

Now the paralyzing sensation had set in. Sherlock's nerves, his cells, his _everything_ were suddenly frozen. He had never feared for his own life, never cared for anyone else enough to fear for theres. So this, this sentiment of vulnerability, of numbness, of loss, this was entirely new.

"Alright, sorry to disturb you. I'd ought to get going," he said.

"Wait," Mr. Watson called.

Sherlock was half way down the driveway when he turned around. John's eye (on a much older face) looked back at him, scared.

"I know that you and my son have had a falling out. Probably because of me but, um, eh-hem. Whatever you two have got going on, I know it probably meant a lot to time. I, erm, haven't really seen him that normal since his mom died, and now that light is gone from him again, and God it's been four hours and I… he's been so down lately…"

The man's face was etched with so much guilt and sadness.

"Mr. Watson," Sherlock cut in. "I know for a fact that your son did not off himself. Good day."

Now Sherlock was running, his heart pounding in his throat.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was moving down the streets, the roads familiar, foreign, still and terrifying. He racked his mind, muttering the facts of Faithful John beneath his breath.

"Faithful John encounters three ravens. The first says that as soon as the king and he reach the shore, a horse-drawn carriage will come; if the king mounts it, it will carry him off to death. The only solution is for someone to kill the horse, but anyone who reveals this by stating it out loud would have his legs turn to stone up to the knees. The second raven says that the king would be killed by wine. Whoever says so would turn to stone to his waist. The third raven says that the princess would faint and die unless someone draws three drops of blood from her right breast. Whoever states this would turn entirely to stone…"

Sherlock, for the first time in a long while, didn't know where to start. He felt so dull, so ordinary.

Sherlock decided to follow the fairy tale and make his way to the nearest shore. It was a small, half-beach/ half-swamp a few blocks down. It was located in the back lot of a chain of large factories, and the run-off oils tinted the waters a soft gray. The air was thick, cold. Sherlock kicked aside some garbage and exhaled. He could see his breath wisp from his lips like cigarette smoke.

Sherlock attempted to go to his mind palace but found himself cursing at the mucky water instead. John _needed_ him, and all Sherlock could do was stare at his mutilated reflection on the water's surface with self-loathing.

"Mr. King?" Sherlock spun around and saw a taxi driver—a balding, middle-aged thing that had probably had more than his share of microwave pizzas.

"Pardon?"

"Got a call from a Mr. King for a cab here," he said. "That you?"

"Yes," answered Sherlock shortly.

He followed the man into the cab. "You know, I really shouldn't say this but you could easily walk to the cement factory from here. It's only about half a mile."

_Cement factory? _"I'm actually in a bit of a hurry," he replied.

"Got it," answered the driver, and they took off down the road.

Sherlock watched the grey buildings pass, remembering his way through this unfamiliar part of town. When the cab came to a stop, he tossed the driver some money and told him to keep the change.

Sherlock pounded against several locked doors in frustration. Finally, on the side of the factory, a door to what looked like a giant garage came open. Long rows of cement trucks were parked like a maze before him.

"Hello?" he called.

"You're majesty," came a voice. "So nice of you to join us."

Sherlock took off, following the voice until he found them. John was dangling, gagged and red-faced, in the air in what looked like a spider web of ropes. He hung a few feet over a large cement machine. John's soft eyes met Sherlock's and rounded with panic.

"John!"

"So sweet," purred Jim, who stood at the foot of the web of ropes. "And they say you don't have sentiment."

Sherlock stared at him and felt an unfamiliar sensation: lost for words.

"For God's sake, say something already. I do have a curfew."

"Get him _down_," Sherlock ordered.

"Why? It took quiet some effort to get him up there. Isn't that right, Faithful Johh?" John just glared down at him soundlessly. Jim let out a long laugh. "Besides, not until you finish your fairy tale. But I'm glad you boarded your carriage. Usually they don't catch on so fast. The first football player? The blonde one? It took the oaf right up until I killed him to figure out he was Goldilocks. The girl took a couple threats but _you_, oh, I knew you'd be different. You're a quick one aren't you, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's pulse raced as he fought to keep his calm demeanor. "So all this has been out of boredom and an overly active imagination?"

Jim shrugged. "The football player had it coming. The girl and her boyfriend were sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time but _you_, oh, you two are just too much fun."

He nearly skipped over to the cement machine under John. Suddenly, the metal roared to life.

"Now, your majesty, shall we turn your servant into stone?"


	19. Chapter 19

The ropes lowered John slowly, dangling him delicately like a hanged corpse. Sherlock watched his friend's face as the machine cackled beneath him. He kept his expression calm, controlled, masking his fear for Sherlock's sake.

"Fine. Fine. My fairytale? What's next?"

Jim smiled like a cat. "The game's quite simple, really. I will give you a few tasks and Faithful John here always knows their solution. But if he says a word then…" He released a bit of rope. The web twisted and John dropped a few inches downward.

"You really go to great lengths for entertainment, don't you?" Sherlock hissed. "You couldn't have just joined the drama club or something?"  
"Starred in Fiddler on the Roof last semester," he replied. "Trust me, this is more fun."

Sherlock watched as Jim rolled a cart out from behind a truck. On it were three clear glasses, half filled with blood-colored liquid.

"The King will be killed by wine…" Sherlock recited.

"Have a drink," Jim said. "Only _one_ of them is poisoned."

"The one on the right has the most profound finger marks along its side and the least amount of wine. So you poured it last with whatever remnants were in the bottle. But _you_, you are over eager. You'd have dropped poison into the mix as soon as you'd have the chance so clearly the third glass is safe," Sherlock concluded.

Jim raised the glass to Sherlock. "Care to test that theory?"

Ignoring his gesture, Sherlock returned his attention to the remaining glasses. "Now, which is the poisoned cup? Hmm. One or two?"

He glanced up at John. His tired eyes stared back at him determinedly. Then he blinked two slow, deliberate times.

"It's the second glass, clearly," said Sherlock. He raised the safe one up. "A toast?"

Jim sneered, and they tapped glasses. The sweet, harsh taste was on Sherlock's tongue. Instantly, memories of a few weeks back flooded his mind_. John and he were sitting near the fire. John's words were slurring adorably and their knees were touching on the carpet._

Jim lowered his glass. "You really think I'm that DUMB?" His voice rose suddenly to a shout. He unraveled some rope, and John plummeted downward until his sneakers were skimming the wet cement's surface. "Little blinking tricks? Really?"

Sherlock heart beat in his throat. The sickening fear that had invaded his body some time ago now felt like a crushing weight upon his chest.

"So now what?" Sherlock managed. "Do you have three princesses for me to draw blood from?"

"Something like that," muttered Jim.

Suddenly John was flailing, calling out cuss words that Sherlock had never even heard before. Again, he dropped down so that he was ankle-deep in the churning cement.

"Quiet John!" Sherlock ordered. Clearly, John _cared_. But John, well, John cares about a lot of things… his grades, sports teams, stray animals, his teachers, his friends. But looking up at him now, Sherlock could see that he was close to tears, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. This, _this_ John cared about above all else.

"Where is she?" asked Sherlock. "Where's Harry?"

Jim's jaw dropped flamboyantly. "Oh you are clever aren't you?"

John's eyes looked immensely relieved, and Sherlock could tell that he was seconds away from sacrificing himself.

"Go ahead," said Jim. "Find her."

Sherlock took off running. This room was filled with trucks. She had to be in one of them, right? He couldn't risk glancing over at John for clues, so he looked around instead. The entrance was near a series of storage trucks. Assuming they had come in through that door, Jim must have been handling both John and Harry at the time. Sherlock could tell that, since entering the room, Jim hasn't had an accomplice. The clear rope burns along his hands and arms from creating the web told him so much. Besides, based on the past, Jim Moriarty wouldn't dare share his glory. He managed mischief on his own. His get-away car (he was far too smart not to have an escape plan) was likely parked in front, but as of entering the room, he was solo.

If Jim's too small to have carried _two_ individuals, had he used Harry as bait to get John to follow? Most likely. John would follow his loved ones to the ends of the earth and back. John… John who was so loving, so caring, yet still so clever…

Ah _hah_, and there it was—the epitome of John's cleverness. Sherlock couldn't stare for long, just a quick glance at the little green bead and its twin a few steps down. John had formed a shrewd little trial of beads, just barely noticeable in the dark garage. Sherlock remembered clearly his first encounter with John, when the only deduction he'd gotten wrong was that his bracelet had been made by his younger sister. As he ran the trail, his body pulsing dangerously, Sherlock was so glad he hadn't deleted that snippet of information—glad he simply _couldn't _delete anything about John.

The last bead was hidden slightly beneath a tire. The truck, Sherlock found, was open. Inside Harry's small body was lying there, her favorite princess tiara placed atop her unconscious head.

Immediately, Sherlock found her pulse and let out of sigh of relief. "She's safe, John!" He called out loudly. "She's safe!"

Sherlock scooped her into his arms and walked her back out to the others.

"He finished your tasks! Now let us go!" spat John. Something about his voice stirred a million emotions in Sherlock.

A shrill laugh erupted from Jim's small frame. "Okay, okay, Sherlock, get him down. You're free."

Sherlock placed Harry on the floor gingerly. The ropes were intricate, a code to be de-riddled. He examined it carefully (_not_ getting distracted by his close proximity to John) as he walked along the outskirts of the machine. He untied some areas around the side. "John, if I unravel this rope, you'll fall into the cement. I need you to, to hold onto me."

John's arms were tied outward, like Jesus crucified. Sherlock began by releasing his wrists. They were bloodied and burned, but he managed to reach out and take hold of Sherlock. With half of his strength holding John and the other half griping the bars holing up the web, Sherlock pulled.

The ropes fell into the mix, partly gripping John. "John… put your arms around my neck."

He did, and Sherlock was granted a free arm to work on the knots behind him. With frantic fingers, he removed the ropes from around his torso.

Sherlock managed to drag John, still entangled in rope, away from the cement machine.

"I—ugh, my ankle," he said.

Sherlock supported his weight with an arm snugly wrapped around his waist.

"H-Harry?"

"She's fine. Unconscious, but regular heart beat."

John nodded. Looking up, he met Sherlock's eyes. John looked tired and relieved and still frightened and… something else too. Sherlock's stomach dropped sickeningly. What if John hated him for ever getting him into this mess?

Jim erupted in laughter once again. This time, it echoed through the walls. Jim is standing in the doorway. "Alright, boys. It's been fun but it's time for me to depart."

He pulled something from his pocket. Sherlock squinted to see—a lighter? Suddenly the area around the door erupted into flames. They took off, spread, and licked the walls.

The door slammed shut while the flames played strange shadows across John's face. "We have to get Harry out of here," he said.

"Right."


	20. Chapter 20

The flames crawled up and down the walls. After a fit of sputtering from the smoke, Harry woke from her sleep.

John limped over, pulled her up and into his arms.

"Jawn? What's happening?" she cried.

"Well, Harry, a sociopathic sophomore has locked us in a factory that's about to burn to the ground," answered Sherlock. "Our only option is the vents."

"The _vents_?"

"Yes, we can crawl through them and out to safety. They'll be hot and smokey but we don't have much of a choice." Sherlock began to scale a truck. Standing on its top, he was able to use his pocket knife to unscrew the vent. "It's big enough for crawling. Up you go, Harry, you first."

Harry crawled her way up first. "It's a straight shoot to the exit," Sherlock said. "C'mon, John."

John took a few steps forward and, with a yelp, fell at the foot of the truck. "I don't think I can manage the climb," he said seriously.

"What?"

"My ankles, I think they're both broken from the cement."

Sherlock leaped down to him.  
"No, _stop_, you and Harry have to get out of here before the smoke gets any worse," John sputtered. His face was ashen now, all shades of grey and red.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John, you think your immobility is enough to make me leave you?"

He cradled him up, one arm around his waist and the other supporting his legs. John wrapped an arm around his neck, coughing into Sherlock's shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," John replied.

Sherlock, despite his lean stature, managed to pull both their weight to the top of the truck.

"Can you crawl?" He asked. John nodded and, taking Harry's small hand, crawled into the vent. Sherlock followed.

Instantly, a thin layer of sweat covered Sherlock's body. His shoulders pressed against the hot metal as he whispered, "Start moving forward." From there, he held his breath, but he could still taste the thick and nauseating smoke in the air. Their movements echoed through the vent, mixing with John's masked gasps of pain as his feet tapped against the metal encasement

"Almost there," Sherlock said. The heat was beginning to blister his palms. Harry was weeping as she crawled on.

"Just a little further, Harry. Every princess has her adventures, right? Now you're a true princess," John prompted her on.

"There, _there _it is," Sherlock grunted. He passed John his knife so that he may lean over his sister and set them free.

"_Thank God_."

A rush of relief flooded through Sherlock. This whole mess was nearly over with and John would be, more or less, alright. Just as he was resisting the urge to pull John into an awkwardly cramped hug, Sherlock felt a sudden weightlessness.

The floor had fallen from beneath him with a sharp crack. Sherlock felt himself sliding back. His stomach dropped, and he wondered briefly whether he was about to die, whether his last site would be dancing flames and last sound, well, nothing but John's breathless shouts.

But a warm hand grasped his wrist firmly. John had managed to twist his body around in the vent and take hold of Sherlock's slipping hand.

Suddenly John was barking orders like a corporal in a tone so commanding that, if the situation were different, Sherlock might have swooned.

"Harry, I need you to finish unlocking the door, push through, and tell me if you see a safe way down. Sherlock, _hold on_. I'm going to pull you up as soon as Harry's out so that our combined weight won't knock down the rest of this section of vent."

Sherlock gripped tight as his lower half dangled above the fire. "John, I—"

"Please, Sherlock, save me the nobility," John said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, _your_ allowed to use the cliché 'go on without me' bit, but I'm not?"

John smile and, if it were even possible, tightened his grasp on Sherlock's wrist.

There was a loud _thunk_ of falling metal and a celebratory "Yeee!"

"Harry, did you get it? Is there a way down?"

"A trunk!" She answered, "A fire truck is on its way!"

They paused to listen the sirens which were barely audible over the cackling flames. John exhaled and lowered his gaze to Sherlock.

"Incompetent. They couldn't have arrived fifteen minutes ago?"

"Shut it, you," said John, and a ridiculous smile stretched across his face.

They were going to be just fine.


	21. Chapter 21

"Broken?"

"Just the right one. The left is sprained, couple broken toes," answered John. "See those chocolates over there? One box is for you. They're from Molly."

In the time it took the fire department to extinguish the fire, transport the trio to the hospital, and treat their burns and wounds, the entire school had caught wind of their tale. Now John sat in his hospital bed, his legs in casks and suspended in the air.

Sherlock nodded at the chocolates and entered the room awkwardly.

"What about you?" asked John.

Sherlock held up his hands, which were wrapped in cloth. "Just some burns. I imagine you've got the same. And Harry?"

"They're giving her extra treatment for all the smoke, since she's so small. She should be fine though. Her and my dad are right down the hall."

Sherlock nodded again and a silence stretched across the small room.

"I'm sorry," proclaimed Sherlock quickly. "You and Harry don't deserve to get mixed up in all this. I talked to Mycroft and I'm transferring schools… to London, actually. A boarding school. Anyway, the farther away I am the simpler your life becomes so—"

"Sherlock," John cut in, a bit shocked. "I don't care if Jim's still out there, or if I almost died, or if the entire school thinks I'm queer. You're my best friend, and I _don't_ regret having met you."

Sherlock didn't move. He hadn't anticipated this response, and now he just hovered between the strange sensation to argue and to kiss him. _Sentiment._

"I thought," he cleared his throat. "I thought you wanted nothing to do with me."

John rolled his eyes. "I don't think it matters much what I want. What I need is to have _everything_ to do with you. How can I even put this? You're strange and wonderful, and terrible and beautiful, and self-destructive, arrogant, dangerous, brilliant. You're just, you're Sherlock Holmes."

"And you're John Watson," answered Sherlock hesitantly.

"And maybe that's just it. Maybe we belong together."

A goofy grin spread across Sherlock's face, and he suddenly felt inclined to move forward. He adjusted himself into the bed beside John, curling against him. John's hand found their way to the mess of dark curls, and Sherlock ran his hand in circles over John's chest.

"So you're certain, then? You still want to be my friend?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes, you idiot." He placed a kiss on the top of Sherlock's head. Encouraged, Sherlock propped himself up to look down at his friend. The bags were missing from beneath his eyes now, and a soft smile graced his lips.

"Can I kiss you, John?"

He nodded, and Sherlock lowered himself slowly. John's kisses were hesitant, but as the two boys adjusted, he quickly took the lead—parting Sherlock's lips, teasing his clever tongue, and tilting his head until a soft sigh escaped from Sherlock's mouth. Like magnets, they closed the space between them.

Sherlock had never kissed anyone before, but he quite liked kissing John.

"John," he mumbled against his lips. "You've already started on those chocolates, haven't you?"

John smiled. "Making deductions? Even now?"

"I can taste them," he hummed happily. "Remind me to thank Molly later."

John laughed into Sherlock's smile.

Sherlock spent the rest of the hour feeding John chocolates, stealing his kisses, and detailing the stupid look that was bound to bestow Anderson's face once the couple snogged right in front of him.

Sherlock had never been the romantic sort. Far from it—he was sure he was meant to be alone. But whatever part of Sherlock that was made of stone now felt light as air. He exhaled, his breath warm against his lover's ear, and whispered again and again how much he loved him.

**That's it folks. Hope you enjoyed! Please PLEASE review?! **** Also, more Johnlock to come so stay subscribed! Love you all! Thanks for reading!**


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